


Just Transport

by unofficialsherlockian



Series: Everything Else is Transport [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Drug Abuse, During Canon, Dysphoria, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, M/M, Pre-Canon, Suicidal Ideation, Transphobia, attempted non-con, ftm Sherlock, relationship focused, some canon divergence, some unilock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-09
Updated: 2015-06-25
Packaged: 2018-01-11 17:35:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 17
Words: 27,203
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1175920
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unofficialsherlockian/pseuds/unofficialsherlockian
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He'd always felt wrong in what he was physically. Mentally is where he'd always been comfortable. Then again, the body was just transport. But that didn't mean that he'd always thought that, or accepted it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Boyhood

**Author's Note:**

> *not fully edited atm, please excuse any typos or miswordings, seemingly rushed parts. Working on fixing everything up slowly.
> 
> *4k hits is amazing thanks all*

He was young when he decided something must be wrong.

Everything felt different. He felt he was like Mycroft, and yet mycroft was called 'he' and Sherlock wasn't. Mycroft had a name that was listed as 'male' when it was looked up, when Sherlock had one that said 'female'.

They went in separate bathrooms when they were in public; Sherlock with Mummy and Mycroft to a separate one that dad would also go into. Mummy told Sherlock that he was to try to go with someone whenever he could; that young girls weren't always safe. She also told Mycroft to think of his sister if he ever saw anyone looking to harm a girl when they were in public.

Sherlock was asked to wear dresses and Mycroft suits, though no one protested when Sherlock chose to wore dress pants and a blouse instead. Mummy, however, looked sad when Sherlock caught her looking him over when she thought he wasn't looking.

He'd see other boys playing rough and wonder why people called she didn't normally do that.

It was the next year that he was sent to a public school in a uniform that wasn't like the boys'. Mycroft was years ahead of him, and a loner, preferring to work by himself, only socializing when it proved beneficial to him. Sherlock after one day thought that was the way to go.

He cut his hair short in the bathroom mirror; mummy came home to put her hand over her mouth in shock.

'You're taking her to get her hair fixed,' she'd told dad. Sherlock was happy that at least she wasn't angry, just disappointed.

'Is it more comfortable that way?' Dad had asked in the car ride. He'd smiled at Sherlock; dad had always been more easy-going. 

Sherlock nodded. 'I don't like how it looks like the girls' hair,' he'd said. 'Boys' hair...looks better.'

Dad had nodded and didn't correct the stranger on the street when they'd told him how cute his son was. Sherlock remembered that moment as being the one that had changed everything.

Boy seemed to fit him so much more than girl. 

 

He learned the violin, finding some comfort in the challenge, being able to lose himself in the notes and the constant need to put them to his fingers and the bow. Mummy said she was proud of him.

But he struggled through the years. Girls his age called him a boy, and he hated their tone of voice; what was wrong if he was a boy? Boys never called him a boy though. Boys his age tended to yell at him for acting like a boy; call him gay. Sherlock took offense to that. Although Mycroft was heavily closeted, Sherlock had been able to tell. He'd also seen that one of the only 'friends' Mycroft seemed to have wasn't just a friend.

He fought alot with his peers, angering his teachers and upsetting his mother.

When he was 12 he was sent home for the first time after being beaten up by two boys.

Mummy angry. 'Why couldn't they just leave you alone? You're just a little girl!' She kissed his forehead after giving him ice for the bruises on his face and putting plasters on his knees. 'I think I should phone the school again.'

'They've heard enough of you by now,' Dad said and Sherlock grinned at that. She huffed and left the room. 'She loves to be dramatic...something you've gotten from her sometimes, I think.'

Sherlock shook his head. Then he looked at his dad. 'Why aren't I a boy?' he asked, for the first time voicing his confusion.

'Biology,' Dad answered, frowning. At Sherlock's apparent sad face he sat next to son and put a hand on his shoulder. 'Sherlock, when your mum was pregnant with you, she'd told me she thought it was another boy. That even after seven years, she felt the same as she'd felt about Mycroft. She wasn't wrong then, and well...'

Sherlock's eyes widened and Dad smiled. 'Do you want to be a boy?'

'They all say at school that I'm not, that I can't be. That I'm just gay or some kind of freak.' His voice was biting on the last word. 'But...they're wrong. They have to be.'

'If you think they're wrong about this, they're wrong.' Dad ruffled his hair and then stood. 'I would advise holding off on telling your mother-let me break it to her. She did always want a daughter, you know.' 

 

'She's not a boy!'

That night he heard his parents arguing softly. He was told to go to bed, to rest after being hurt earlier in the day. But that was boring. Listening to Dad tell Mum about what they'd talked about was far more interesting.

And painful once those words hit him. Tears sprung to his eyes and he hated himself.

'She can't just choose not to be a girl!'

'Violet, you can't choose what's best for your child his whole life.' Sherlock had froze at the pronoun, something in his chest bubbling up, causing tears to form in his eyes once more, but for a different reason this time. 'And I think this is something only he can decide and know for sure. You've seen him grow up; there's never been any reason why he couldn't be a male.'

'What if she gets hurt? What if she's bullied even more? We can't just start treating her like a boy, William!'

He didn't want to listen after that. He was awake long after they went to bed, crying silently.

 

Dad continued with the male pronouns. Sherlock immediately knew that his father would change back if Sherlock wanted him too, and recognized right away that he was grateful for it. Around his mother it was always she.

Mycroft over the phone from university had asked why he wanted to change.

'I'm not changing anything!' Sherlock protested. 'And if I'm a boy, you don't need to be so concerned about me all the time!'

'I'm always going to worry about you and want to protect you. Do you know how dangerous it is to be a transexual?'

Sherlock was angry, but he did research. His excitement about hormone therapy and gender-reassignment surgery was replaced by a small sliver of fear when he read about the murders and attacks and hate crimes. But it didn't stop him either.

'Sherlock,' he announced, the day before his 13th birthday. The bullying hadn't stopped, and he was to switch schools after the break for Christmas. 'I want to be called Sherlock.'

'Where did you get that name?' Mycroft asked. He for once didn't sound disapproving, merely curious.

'Someone in our family was called it. He was born in 1854. He was a private detective.'

Mycroft smiled. 'You'll hopefully be more well-known then your namesake; I'd never known.' He exchanged a look with Dad. 'Sherlock.'

'What about William for your middle name?' Dad said smiling. 

Sherlock watched his mother frown through the entire conversation. 'What do you think, Mother?' he asked.

She looked up at him sadly. 'This isn't changing, is it?'


	2. The Roommate

They enrolled him in his new school under his birthname, but Sherlock's father had gone in the day before Sherlock went to inform the staff about Sherlock and his situation.

No one knew he wasn't a boy.

 

14 hit and the other boys' voices were changing dramatically. Sherlock's sounded higher to him, making him angry. He constantly started to try to talk lower, looking for books on voice training. 

'How come your voice isn't as deep?' The boy next to him asked one day.

'Hormone deficiency,' Sherlock answered casually. The boy frowned, looking confused. 'Don't think too hard; it means I have a lower testosterone count than you. I won't have a deeper voice until later in life.'

'Freak,' the boy muttered.

 

At 16 he came home sporting a black eye and a cut lip amongst other injuries from a group of boys. One had pulled his trousers down, saying he needed to check that Sherlock wasn't a girl after class and they'd felt they'd been tricked. Sherlock had bruised knuckles from where he'd punched the boys back, but he hadn't won the fight, not by a long shot.

He cried when he explained it to his father, the bruises on his ribs hurting him with his heavy breathing. Mother had heard him upstairs and came, took one look at him, and then encased him in a protective hug. 

'Oh Sherlock,' she said, her voice tight.

Sherlock froze, still breathing heavily. It was the first time she'd called him by that name.

'No one messes with my boy,' she muttered. 'Give me those boys' names, dear, I'm phoning your school after we make sure they didn't do anything serious to your ribs.

One was cracked, adding to her fury, and the list of reasons why the boys who'd attacked Sherlock were suspended for so many days. 

Mother could get nasty when someone touched her family and Sherlock was grateful for that. 

Mycroft came home that weekend, bringing a new microscope and a criminal justice book for Sherlock. 'What about Scott for your middle name?' he asked Sherlock. 'It's another family name-mummy's father, but I think it suits you.'

Sherlock thought for a while. 'The only problem is the double 's'. Doesn't fit right.'

Their father looked put out. 'No one wants him to take my name?' he asked jokingly.

'William Sherlock Scott Holmes.'

They all turned to look at Violet Holmes, the name fitting him as if he'd been born with it.

That was where it changed. He'd written the full name on the form and gotten it as his own legal name. He'd entered university as a male, hoping to get his chest surgery later that year. He'd started on hormones half a year previous. His voice was still higher, but given that he was tall and angular, and never gave any reason to doubt him, everyone he went near only ever saw him as.

He had no roommate, something he was glad for in many ways, but contrary to Mycroft, Sherlock felt sometimes he needed the human company.

It was on a colder day that he'd been late and met Victor. They'd literally ran into each other, books scattering everywhere, Victor's hand on Sherlock's arm to at least stop one of them from falling, and ending up instead causing them both to further pitch towards the concrete.

'Sorry!' Victor scrambled with Sherlock to pick up books and sort who owned what. 'My fault entirely.'

'I wasn't paying attention either,' Sherlock said honestly, raising his head to meet Victor's eyes and blinking at the other young man's look. Victor was studying law,that much he knew from class, and could tell he owned a smaller dog, maybe a terrier, and had a father who was worried about financial troubles.He also noted that Victor's eyes held no judgement as they looked at Sherlock.

'I suppose you're also even more late now.' Victor sounded cheery.

'We're actually meant to be in the same lecture course that's starting in thirty seconds from now,' Sherlock said quickly. 'I sit around two rows behind you.'

'I don't remember ever seeing you,' Victor said frowning. Sherlock found himself smiling slightly.

'I tend to...miss the class more than I make it. I'm studying Chemistry, but figured I'd benefit form the class anyways, when it's worthwhile to listen to.' He stood and offered Victor a hand to stand. 'Since neither of us are gonna make it...coffee?' He didn't know why he was asking; maybe because Victor showed no inclination to avoid him 

Victor nodded. 'Happy to. Up way too late last night. There's a shop I know of, pretty quiet around this hour.'

'So you're studying what, law?' Sherlock asked curiously over a warm cup. He surprisingly didn't feel uneasy in Victor's company. He could only hope that the young man would prove to be nice. Maybe he'd gain some kind of a companion.

'Yeah.' Victor tilted his head. 'At least for now. My dad likes to call me a wild card-I change what I like and what I do alot. I guess I'm pretty unpredictable and not easily tied down. Some days I think this lawyer business would be too boring.'

'Definitely,' Sherlock agreed. 'Not enough hands on experience or action for me.'

'Says the aspiring chemist?'

Sherlock shook his head. 'Chemistry's just a hobby-solving equations and mixing things and experimenting to find the results. I'm not sure what I'm doing yet, but I'm leaning towards crime investigation.'

'Where are you living now?'

Sherlock gave him the name of his building. 'Single room, for now. I want to start paying for myself soon, so I might need to start looking for someone to share with.' He snorted. 'No idea how that's gonna go.'

'Why?' Curiosity was overflowing in Victor's voice. 'You seem nice enough.'

'Other people seem to think differently. And I'm slightly out of place amongst other people. Normal and I don't mix.'

'Yet here you are with me,' Victor pointed out.

Sherlock considered this, looking over the top of his coffee mug as he sipped it into the almond brown eyes. 'That's true.'

'Mine's moving out.'

'What?'

'Roommate,' Victor clarified. He grabbed a napkin and wrote down the building and room number. 'Stop by sometime if you're serious about needing a roommate-I'd definitely be okay with it.'

'You've known me for half an hour.' Sherlock didn't know how he felt about this. He was confident in his ability to pass as male after so much time in front of the mirror in the mornings, adjusting his clothes and testing his voice-making sure his face was set in a way that didn't show off the baby fat that was still slightly present. In a room with another student was different. He'd seen the boys in the halls, walking around topless and sometimes without a towel after a shower. He didn't know how comfortable he would be with it all, and he didn't know if Victor would still be happy to share with him if he knew Sherlock's problem.

Sherlock liked to pretend that his attitude of not caring was more real than it was.

But he cared about being different and not fitting in and that was a problem.

 

Two days later he was moving into Victor's room, a thousand plans on how to keep his biology a secret.

 

It was later that week that Mycroft had phoned, wondering who Victor Trevor was and if Sherlock felt he was in any danger by being in a room with him. 

Sherlock told him to fuck off.

He was sick of his brother's over protectiveness. He wasn't a child anymore, or a girl anymore. If he didn't think about it, he didn't even think about himself as a transman anymore. 

'Who was that?' Victor was watching Sherlock from his bed.

'Brother. He's an idiot. Don't ask about him.' Sherlock grabbed his violin and started playing angrily.

'Studying here!' Victor reminded him loudly. Sherlock rolled his eyes and practically waltzed out of the room, still playing until he got outside, and leaned against the base of a tree, lighting a cigarette.

He took up smoking as soon as he was out of the house (Mother never would have let him live if she found out. She'd scream about the health risks and whatever else). It made his voice sound lower and he liked it.

'Sherlock Holmes.'

Sebastian Wilkes. Sherlock didn't know if he liked him enough. He was good enough looking, and somewhat smart, but he also seemed to be a 'take what you can and take advantage whenever you can' sort of man, and Sherlock wasn't sure if he liked that either.

However, Sherlock was comfortable enough in identifying as male to discover that he didn't find woman appealing or attractive, but he did find men to be aesthetically pleasing. He didn't think he was gay-the whole sex bit didn't interest him in the slightest; too messy and personal and emotional-but the relationship aspect he thought could be a thing he could do.

So he said yes when Sebastian invited him to dinner the night after next and went back to his room, thinking.

'He's a nasty jerk and I don't think you should even try your luck,' Victor said after Sherlock had sat down.

'How do you know?'

'I know pompous rich assholes like him.' Victor shook his head. 'He doesn't actually like you-believe me he's probably using you for something.'

Sherlock shook his head. 'I can read people, Victor, you know that. I think he's alright, if a little snobby. Leave it alone.'


	3. Not Alright

It hadn't lasted long.

Sebastian, it turned out, wanted Sherlock to 'help him' with his work and sit in his room together-never go out, never be seen.

'He's too straight for his own good,' Victor pointed out, as Sherlock came back late, grumpily. 'Though I've heard he's a good shag in return for doing his school work, you could always bring that up-'

'No,' Sherlock said quickly. The idea of sex made him uncomfortable. He'd never given it too much thought, but he knew that the fact that he didn't have and wasn't likely to ever have, the right equipment for his gender meant that he would never feel right about the act. 'I'm giving him maybe two more days and then telling him to fuck off.'

Victor sighed.

It helped, Sherlock figured, that Sebastian was older and would therefore be graduating sooner than Sherlock, meaning Sherlock wouldn't have to put up with him his entire time at uni. Besides that, they were in different fields of study and would hopefully only cross paths if they met at mealtime.

 

He was stupid to have gone even one day further with this, Sherlock thought afterward. 

Because sitting on the edge of Sebastian's bed with him, trying to explain some concept far too complicated for Sebastian's brain had led to Sebastian kissing him furiously. Sherlock had reciprocated, not adverse to the idea, but then Sebastian's hand wandered down below Sherlock's naval and Sherlock broke off Sebastian quickly.

'No. No don't-' but he'd been silenced by another kiss and then Seb's hand was in his trousers, down his pants, groping and feeling for something that wasn't there, never had been there, never would be there-

Sebastian broke away from Sherlock furiously, looking at him with wild eyes. 'What kind of freak are you?'

'Seb-'

'My god, that's so fucking-you're...you're a girl!'

'Seb, no, I'm a man I just-'

Sebastian shook his head. 'I've always preferred woman anyways,' he breathed, leaning over Sherlock, attempting to pin him on his back on the covers; Sherlock could feel the man's erection against his pelvis and jerked away violently, his skin crawling and his throat feeling like it was closing slightly. He kicked at Sebastian who jerked away, looking wildly confused, and Sherlock ran, out the door and out of Sebastian's building.

He ended up vomiting, on his knees, throwing his hands out to keep himself from falling forward any further. He could smell Sebastian's cologne on him and felt another wave of nausea hit as his skin felt too tight around his body. His brain was trying to tell him that he was fine, that panicking was irrational, but he couldn't control himself.

He hadn't had a panic attack in years, not since he'd started feeling better about his body and what it all meant for him.

'Sherlock!'

Victor's voice preceded his knees as he knelt next to Sherlock. 'Hey, Sherlock, you're alright, you're right here with me, okay? You're safe...'

He gasped for breath and shuddering, hoping he wouldn't have to look at Victor, or talk for a long while.

'Jesus what did the bastard do to you?' Victor muttered.

'N-nothing,' Sherlock said, in spite of not wanting to talk. 'Wanted to fuck me, I told him not to-he tried anyway-no-nothing happened.'

'Jesus...' Victor tentatively put a hand on Sherlock's shoulder. 'You're okay, Sherlock, he can't do anything to you anymore.'

Sherlock shook his head. 'I know...' He sat back, breathing deeply and Victor kept his hand on his shoulder. Sherlock felt it was slightly grounding and was glad for it.

 

They made their way back to the dorm a while later when Sherlock had calmed down more and Victor asked if he was cold. Which he was. Victor made tea while Sherlock showered. He didn't take long, just long enough for Sebastian's stink to wash away from him.

'If you skip classes tomorrow, so will I,' Victor said, looking at Sherlock carefully. Sherlock sighed heavily.

'Gonna see how I feel when I get up.' He looked at Victor. 'It's not so much what he would have done to me,' he said quietly.

Victor started and met Sherlock's eyes. 'Then what is it?'

Sherlock shook his head. 'Not...now.' He looked away. 'Nothing feels right just now.'

'It's okay.' Victor stood looked at Sherlock. 'I'm gonna sleep unless you want me to stay up.'

'Going to bed too,' Sherlock said, standing as well. '...Thanks.'

 

The next morning at breakfast, Sherlock and Victor passed Sebastian, who had a few friends with him.

'Morning, Freak,' Sebastian said loudly. His friends snickered.

Sherlock tried to hurry past, suppressing a shiver.

'Everyone's asking about what _woman_ I'm was with,' Sebastian said. 'Thinking about telling them.'

Sherlock froze. Then turned around swiftly, his eyes flashing over the group. 'Oh I imagine after you'd been left so horny by attempting to touch me you had her-' he pointed to the brown haired taller girl standing close to Sebastian. 

Sebastian's face went red and Sherlock turned back to Victor feeling slightly sick but alot better. Victor tried to get him to eat, but Sherlock refused, his stomach in knots as he clutched at his coffee. 'Feeling ill, gonna skip today,' he muttered. 

'I'll stay with you,' Victor said. 'I can miss the test-the professor likes me enough to let it go.'

Sherlock nodded absently.

It wasn't long after that that he was doing lines of cocaine off a classmates desk late one night.

Sebastian was constantly calling him a woman whenever he could and Sherlock's skin was crawling. He knew he looked like a man and knew he was a man, but that didn't stop him from seeing too-wide hips, too-thick thighs...he scrutinized himself in the mirror everyday but nothing looked right with him. He knew that he saw a man in the mirror, but trying to look at himself from an outsider's viewpoint, from someone who'd just heard Sebastian refer to him as a woman, and he couldn't see anything but female in himself. He saw the scars on his chest from the mastectomy over his winter break and saw them as giveaways to his condition, even though they were barely noticeable. Everything felt wrong.

Everything made him want to curl up in his bed and never move. He wasn't prone to fits of depression, not in a long while, especially since he'd been so accepted by his family, but now things were out to someone Sherlock didn't want knowing, now his female status was being shoved in his face and everyone else's-even if they didn't listen to him.

Sherlock stood under the boiling water of the shower, letting it scald his skin red and closed his eyes, seeing himself drowning.

 

'What's going on?'

Sherlock raised an eyebrow at Victor, idly playing with his violin bow on his bed. He'd been having urges recently to either snap it, or drag it across his throat as long as he could to see if it would slit it open. Now he put it down to mess with the strings on his violin.

'With you,' Victor clarified. 'Emotionally or mentally or whatever. You're not doing alright.'

'Don't be stupid,' Sherlock said, swinging his legs onto his bed and picking at the G string. 

'I'm not, for once,' Victor said seriously, sitting up and looking at Sherlock. There was an undertone to his voice that set Sherlock on edge. 'I didn't want to bring it up, but you seem really depressed and I think maybe you should talk with someone about it-'

'The hell would you know about it?' Sherlock snapped, the string making a faint 'ping' as Sherlock released it.

'The fuck _wouldn't_ I know about it?' Victor spat back even louder, and Sherlock watched as Victor angrily wrenched up his sleeves, exposing bare forearms to Sherlock, the insides covered in lines of self-inflicted scars. Dimly Sherlock remembered realizing that Victor had never worn short sleeves or rolled up his longer ones, but he'd never thought-never dreamed...

'I-I didn't know,' Sherlock said, forcing himself to meet Victor's eyes. He wanted to look and to analyze; to see beyond the fact that they were all at least a year old, to figure out the depth and meaning behind each scar. Sherlock had never really had a friend before-not a human one at least-and never therefore had one who'd been so hurt before either.

'Yeah. You wouldn't have.' Victor kept his arms exposed and sat down heavily on his own bed, sighing angrily. 'But I think I'd be able to notice if a friend was feeling at least something of the same thing. So just tell me if something's wrong.'

Sherlock growled in frustration. 'I'm not doing anything so extreme, so I don't see-'

'Yeah like injecting cocaine because the lines gave you nosebleeds that you didn't like.' Victor shook his head angrily. 'I'm not fucking blind, Sherlock.'

'You wouldn't like me if I told you,' Sherlock snapped, his brain a mess of fear and sadness.

'Try me!' Victor shouted.

'FINE!' Sherlock stood swiftly, his voice raised. 'Yes I'm depressed, yes I want out of this all. It's because Sebastian fucking reached down my pants and didn't like what he found down there.' He snorted mirthlessly. 'More like what he didn't find.' He clenched his fists and looked at Victor. 'I'm a fucking trans, Victor.'

'Trans?'

'Transgender!' Sherlock spat. 'I was born with the biology of a female but I feel distinctly male and everything's-' he slammed his fist into the headboard angrily, '- _fucked_ because of it. Because hearing yourself get called a woman everyday doesn't help but remind you that everyone else might as well think you are-'

'You're not.' Sherlock looked up at Victor in shock, not sure if he'd heard right, but Victor was looking at him dead serious. 'Fuck Sebastian, and I don't even want to think about what's between your legs-that's a person's personal problems. But you're not female. How could he even think that?' He looked at Sherlock quietly for a moment. 'I don't want to lose you over some prat like Sebastian.'

'It's not just him,' Sherlock muttered. 'They call it dysphoria, when your body doesn't match up with what's up here.' He pointed to his head. 'And when you're ...less than okay with that. It's stupid, because in the long run the body means nothing, but in all honestly, most days I would give anything just to destroy this one.'

Victor's large hand was around Sherlock's wrist before he could blink, his eyes filled with honesty and distress as he looked at Sherlock. 'Don't. However you decide to figure it, however you can come to the conclusion that it really isn't worth it. Because it's not.'

Sherlock felt his eyes flickering down to Victor's scars, betraying him and Victor grimaced. 'It's fucking stupid, destroying a perfectly good body, okay? And a fantastic brain like yours?' Victor shook his head. 'Talk to me, or someone, or do something, but just don't destroy yourself.'

Sherlock had never had a friend, and he'd never known anyone like Victor Trevor.


	4. Tragedy

'So when did you realize?'

Sherlock breathed out a slow puff of smoke, not even turning to look at Victor. It felt like something had shifted that night, and that their friendship had become more open, more honest. But he couldn't tell if that was a good thing or not yet.

'Realize...that I was trans?' He let the end of the question trail in the air, and Victor picked up on it quickly.

'Yeah.' He coughed and Sherlock looked over through the corner of his eye. Victor probably had undiagnosed asthma, Sherlock had thought a while ago, but had never said anything. Low income family probably meant that Victor was forced to surrender health for the ability to attend the university. 'Were you just a kid?'

'Pretty young,' Sherlock admitted. 'I remember someone called me male and it fit better than anything I'd been called before.' He thought back to cutting his hair off initially. He'd kept it relatively long since, realizing that plenty of males had long hair and plenty of females had short-hair was only the gender of the person whose head it was attached to.

'What about your family? I'm assuming they're relatively supportive.'

Sherlock nodded, closing his eyes. 'For the most part.' He didn't like bringing up his family much if he could help it. It wasn't that he didn't love his mum and dad, just that he didn't like talking about his childhood, which unfortunately included his parents.

He assumed that after this time had passed, he wouldn't like talking about uni either. Sherlock wondered where that would put Victor in the future.

'Holmes, you can't keep doing this-you'll fail the class.'

He was called after by the criminal investigations teacher, having failed another test. It wasn't as if Sherlock was trying to fail-he just highly disagreed with the way the procedures.

'I'm doing Chemistry, it's not like it'll matter,' he muttered.

'You want to get into forensics though, don't you?' The man's voice was gruff, but curious and supportive.

Sherlock thought for a long while. Back to when he was a kid, and the police hadn't cared about the shoes.

'Maybe not in that way,' he said softly. 'I'll try better on the next exam.'

'You don't need to try better Holmes, you need to do better! You know all of this but refuse to answer correctly!'

'I'll try to do...that,' Sherlock said, standing quickly and leaving out the door. He wondered if such a thing as a consultant for the police could work the way he wanted. If he didn't need to learn theories and concepts so much as apply his own ideas and methods. He wondered....

He felt lost for a long time after that, and spent ages wandering the streets around the university buildings, wondering what his life would become. Everything was vague ideas, and when he thought about the time after uni it was blank, horrifyingly so at times.

Victor helped.

Sherlock didn't like to talk much, save for to mouth off to people who were annoying. And Victor didn't mind. They sat in silence in their room, most of the time. Most of the time, Sherlock didn't feel the need for the drugs to numb his system; most of the time he stayed close to feeling in control and stable.

But then it was late March of Sherlock's third year that Victor was shot after being mugged on a walk home and Sherlock had walked away with a black eye and some bruised ribs.

Victor stepped in front of the gunshot meant for Sherlock's mouthing off and when he collapsed, they had fled, leaving Sherlock to kneel beside Victor, holding his hands to what looked like a fatal gunshot wound in his chest. There was alot of blood; too much. Sherlock had a mental image of him trying to plug holes to keep Victor from draining out, but he was leaking blood to fast as Sherlock tried to call for help.

'Sorry, Sherlock...'

'This was my fucking fault; why did you have to stand in the way like that? Why couldn't you have just let them shoot me?'

'You're my best mate, I'd never want anyone to hurt you...' Victor's eyelids were fluttering and Sherlock felt himself loose control of his own breathing in a blind panic.

'Please, please stay with me...' Sherlock swallowed heavily. 'Victor, c'mon...'

Victor coughed lightly, gasping in pain and Sherlock felt tears fall from his eyes. 'Don't...hurt yourself over this,' Victor murmured. 'Promise me that, Sherlock...just don't hurt yourself...'

Sherlock through his tears without even thinking put his head forward and kissed Victor on the lips as his friend breathed his last. He was stupid, sentimental and unthinking.

Sentiment was a chemical defect. Sentiment got people killed.

Sherlock didn't like the tearing feeling that spurned through his chest; he hated the soreness he felt in his throat as he tired to hold back his tears.

It was stupid, but he left Victor's body in the rain and fled, desperate to find a relief for what he felt.


	5. Street Fighting Man

He spent two days away from campus in a haze of drugs and nicotine, of walking in the rain, and going down dark alleys that he normally would avoid.

He spent a third day wandering around with nothing to stimulate him, feeling empty.

Sherlock had never been someone to deem life worthless, but it was something akin to describing what he felt. Meaningless was how he felt. Empty, maybe.

He'd never exactly had a friend before Victor, which was why life without Victor now was such an empty reality. And as much in his experiences of social dysphoria and bullying that he'd told himself that alone was better, he didn't believe it now. Alone was empty. But it was not being alone that had gotten Victor killed. Had Sherlock been alone, he would've been just another murder. Not only that, he thought bitterly, but another transgender kid who'd been murdered.

He'd long forgotten the exact figures for people who were like him, but he knew regardless that they weren't good. Another reason for his desperation to stay stealth. Besides the danger, he'd also just be another meaningless number of some "poor freak of nature".

It was stupid. Victor had wanted to burn a trail in his wake, to survive and "fuck the world" despite of his past with whatever had gone on in his life. And he'd ended up dying a senseless death. Meanwhile Sherlock had never had many ambitions and was now alive in Victor's stead, wishing for some kind of death.

He took another turn in a dark alley, hoping that for once some mugger would be down it and he would finally be relieved of life in the way Victor had.

But when he heard the scream, that dream died and a kind of fire lit within him.

It was a girl, a few years younger than him, held in a sort of headlock by a man with a knife to her throat while another rifled through her pockets and purse. Sherlock had wanted a mugging, but never like this.

'If you don't keep quiet, I'll slit your throat right here,' the man threatened.

Suddenly all he could think of was the man threatening to shoot him, and then the bang before Victor was on the ground dying. He felt blind with anger and before he knew what he was doing, was running swiftly through the alley and had grabbed the man with the knife-right hand firmly bringing the weapon away from the girl's throat, left arm forcefully choking the man. He wrestled the knife free and pinned the man to the mall by his throat with his hand. The other man let out a terrified run and bolted. Sherlock growled.

'P-please don't,' the man coughed, struggling.

'I really should. It's what you would've done to her, isn't it?' Sherlock felt a strange clarity in his head, maybe from the adrenaline or maybe because right now he knew exactly what he needed to do. 'Run. Run away now and don't ever do this again or maybe someone worse than me might not be so generous.' And he brought the knife away. The man let out a quiet whimper and ran as fast as he could.

Sherlock pocketed the knife as he turned to face the girl, who'd fallen to her knees and was shaking slightly. 'Are you alright?' he asked gently.

She nodded and swallowed. 'Thank...thank you. I don't...know what would've happened if you hadn't been there.'

'Can you stand?' 

Shakily, the girl excepted Sherlock's hand to help her up and rose to her feet.

'I'll walk with you to the police or wherever you need to be if you want,' he offered. He knew it was probably a decent thing to do for her.

'No, I'll be fine. I'll go straight to the police--no more alley short cuts.' She looked at him and smiled genuinely. 'Thank you.'

Sherlock felt something in his chest jump slightly. 

'Do you mind if I ask your name?'

'Sherlock Holmes,' he replied without thinking. She nodded.

'Not many people would've done that,' she said. 'Well, thank you again.' 

He decided he needed to go back to campus and back to reality after that.

 

A few years later he was sending emails to Scotland yard, trying to peek their interest with his knowledge of a case.

Sherlock had been only using drugs once in a while-he's been keeping active by experimenting with Chemistry--he'd gotten his graduate degree in it--and studying various things such as tobacco ash, dirt, and self-defense techniques.

He'd thought after the mugging that he'd done something important for once-like the girl had told him, something not many people would do.

He'd thought a while later that it was definitely something that most policemen wouldn't have been _able_ to do.

He'd then thought back to the Carl Powers case, how noticing the missing shoes was only something he could've done, but pointing it up and getting the authorities involved was only something his present-day older and male self could do.

Sherlock decided that he was going to become the person that the police needed because he was so different from them. He just needed to find someone that would spare him a second glance.

it was about a month later that he'd purposefully bumped into Sally Donovan, spilling his coffee, making her drop her case file. He was able to glance over a few of the papers as he helped pick them up, and use his learned charm on her to secure a date with her that weekend.

He needed information from Scotland Yard, and the soon-to-be sergeant was the best source of it for him. She thought he was charming and clever, he thought she was annoying but smart. If he ended up where he wanted to be at the Yard, he wouldn't mind working with her. 

The next week he ended up meeting her as she got done from a crime scene and they walked to her car, idly discussing the murder that had been in the papers. Sally pulled him into the back seat of the police car and soon was kissing him.

Sherlock didn't want that, not from Sally. Especially not when she kissed him more quickly, he could tell that she wanted them to go further soon. And Sherlock definitely didn't want that.

'Sally, I don't think we should-'

'What's wrong, Sherlock? Haven't you ever had a girl before?'

Her hands were all over him and for a moment his mind went blank. 'I-' but then her left hand was traveling into the waist of his jeans, groping his boxers, searching, forever searching...

He pushed her away before she could so much as react. 'Don't-' he started but she was looking at him, clearly horrified.

'What the hell is wrong with you? Were you lying to me the whole time?' Her eyes were angry, piercing him, and he backed against the door of the car slightly. 'I'm not gay, i like men-'

'I am a man,' he said calmly, but thoughts of Sebastian's large warm hands trailing over his navel made him shudder slightly. Sally shook her head. 'Get out. Go home. I don't want to see you again!' she shouted. 'You're fucking disgusting!' she called after him as he tried to walk out of her line of sight at reasonable pace.

He'd struggled not to use that night and ended up trembling under his blankets until the next morning when he showered until long after his water had turned to ice.

 

A week later Detective Inspector Lestrade replied to his 11th email saying that Sherlock had been right and he'd like to meet up to discuss Lestrade's current case.

Sherlock smiled for the first time in a week.


	6. Injection

Sherlock wondered sometimes if he so much as missed a step on the stairs, Lestrade would have some kind of hidden reaction to it.

It wasn't that he minded. At all, really. Because he hadn't seen his parents in years (phone calls and emails occasionally to assure them that he was still alive) and he pushed Mycroft out of his life at every chance he got, he wasn't used to being looked after by anyone but himself. Not that Lestrade absolutely replaced a parent, or anyone really, but he was a good man. 

Sherlock wished that there'd been half as many Lestrade's in his life as there had been Sebastian Wilkes's. 

 

'Should really quit these,' Lestrade muttered, looking at the lit end of his cigarette and then to Sherlock. 'Both of us really. More so you-you're a bit young to die of cancer from whatever these buggers do to your lungs.'

'No one's too young to die-from anything,' Sherlock muttered quietly, ignoring Lestrade and inhaling the smoke deeply. He ignored lestrade's look; the man could guess all he wanted about Sherlock, but wasn't likely to get any answers. The need to open up to people had long since passed and now all Sherlock wanted was something distant but workable between him and whoever he met.

'You know sometimes I feel like I should be worried about you,' Lestrade pointed out, flicking away his cigarette and turning to face Sherlock.

'Why ever would you feel that?' Sherlock asked, smirking. 

They both could list over a thousand reasons, easily. But in the end it didn't matter to either of them.

 

He knew eventually Mycroft would find out about his drug use. He didn't think the man would show up in his flat in person to tell him off about it.

'Mummy and dad are both worried, you know.'

Sherlock spun on Mycroft in anger. 'You told them?!'

Mycroft shrugged. 'What else would you have me do? You're putting yourself in danger with everything you're doing in life right now, Sherlock. I think they have a right to know the full list of things that might one day kill their son.'

'Piss off,' Sherlock hissed, clenching his fists and glaring at his brother.

'Has it ever occurred to you that I just want to keep you safe and only want what's best for you?' Mycroft sounded unfazed but Sherlock sensed anger.

'And you know you don't need to do that,' Sherlock growled. 'Look at me I'm not some stupid little kid getting bullied anymore, Mycroft. I can take care of myself.'

'When have you ever shown signs of being able to take care of yourself?' Mycroft asked quietly. 'Not since uni, at least. Is this stupidity really worth the risk?' he snarled.

Sherlock looked down. 'It...quiets everything. The constant thoughts. Makes it easier to deal with,' he mumbled. Then he looked up at Mycroft. 'And it's not as if I've been pumping cocaine into my veins for the hell of it anyways.'

'No that's the testosterone, wasn't it?'

Sherlock knew as soon as Mycroft had said it, the man hadn't meant it. But it still felt like something had snapped inside him. 'Oh so is this some kind of intervention again? Some way of Mummy "getting her daughter back" or you your stupid sister? That's not who I am or who I ever was and if that's how you want it you can just stay out!'

'Sherlock, I didn't mean-'

'Just get out already!' Sherlock shouted and closed the door on his brother's not-so-obviously concerned face, breathing heavily. Mycroft would always see him as the idiot little brother; he'd accepted that long ago. But his stupid interfering in hopes to 'protect' Sherlock were something he would never be able to get used to.

Mycroft was connected with a version of himself he wanted cut away. It didn't mean that he always wanted Mycroft cut away from him as well, just that Mycroft would stop treating him like the child that Sherlock so hated.

 

He started wearing suits as often as he could, spending what money he had on perfect tailoring. They outlined the body that he was finally more comfortable with.

Sherlock had assumed for a long while that Mycroft would've told Lestrade about his 'condition'. Lestrade had been talked to by Mycroft once and Sherlock knew that Lestrade had outright refused to report to Mycroft what was going on in Sherlock's life, but that in no way meant that Mycroft couldn't give away everything about Sherlock's life as he knew it.

So it was surprising that Lestrade never acted differently around Sherlock-ever. 

Not even related was Lestrade finding out about the drug 'problem' and only insisting that Sherlock quit it after some time.

It was surprising when Lestrade caught Sherlock clearing up after a testosterone injection, and the Inspector immediately assumed it was drugs again, even though Sherlock had been clean for months. Sherlock had assumed Lestrade would know or assume different, because Sherlock had assumed Lestrade had known about _him_.

Lestrade stopped dead in the door, expression shifting quickly from light to serious. 'I thought you said you were done with the drugs,' he said calmly, but sounding disappointed.

Sherlock hadn't ever planned for the moment and wasn't prepared for this sort of confrontation. So all he could do was look up at Lestrade. 'What?'

'What the hell is that?!' Lestrade asked, fixing Sherlock with worried and hurt eyes. 'You told me you weren't using anymore; you said you'd phone before a relapse; you promised-'

'It's not cocaine,' Sherlock muttered quickly. He didn't like how Lestrade looked; far too disappointed. He didn't like being caught like this either, not this way, not Lestrade.

'Then what the hell are you injecting yourself with now? You can't keep doing this it isn't-'

'IT'S NOT DRUGS,' Sherlock shouted and then began speaking far too quickly, 'It isn't cocaine, it's not drugs, it's a prescription for testosterone; I can show you the fucking papers for it. I'm transgender, my body's not right, I'm trying to fix it. I'm not relapsing, it's not cocaine. I. Am. Clean.' He tried to calm his trembling body and glared at Lestrade; waiting for the inevitable rejection-the anger, the sound of 'freak', the storming out…

Lestrade's mouth was open and he blinked several times before saying weakly, relieved, 'It's not drugs?'

If there was any part of what he'd said that Sherlock thought Lestrade would focus on, it wasn't that. But he tried to take it in stride.

Sherlock shook his head. 'No.' Then he gave Lestrade a piercing look. 'I'm also what most people would call a freak.'

'Yeah Donovan thinks you're that already, mostly just because you're clever...' Lestrade shrugged, looking at Sherlock. 'I don't care, to be honest. I'm just glad it isn't drugs.'

Sherlock blinked. Lestrade smiled slightly. 'Sorry,' he offered quietly.

Sherlock shook his head. 'No, I assumed you knew; that my brother must've told you.'

'I don't listen to half of what he says about you. I reckon he's a little too protective of you sometimes. Plus he gives me the creeps.' Sherlock laughed lightly.

There were still no changes to their relationship afterward. If there was any constant that Sherlock secretly appreciated in his life, it was Lestrade. In a life where fast changed was almost necessary for him to survive, Sherlock liked the often grounding force that was Lestrade. Even if he got annoyingly nagging about evidence and stupid things like sleep from time to time.

Donovan didn't even bother with him. She didn't seem to care about what lay between his legs-it was his abilities at a crime scene that made her so furious with him. In a way, he respected that. In the same way that he disliked her. She was ordinary and boring, but decent at her job, and that was fine with him.

Everything in his life seemed to be straightening out. He'd found time to work at Barts, using corpses for experiments and the labs for his Chemistry. The girl who worked some nights there, Molly, was boring, but useful. And someone who wasn't driven away by him after one meeting, which he surprisingly liked about her. Sherlock felt that maybe things would work themselves out.

Until he was given a week's notice to leave his current flat, and found that he wasn't so sure about having enough money for rent elsewhere.


	7. Companion

He was having a moral crisis over every decision in his life, wondering how on earth he was gonna find money for rent anywhere. Things going right in his life hadn't done anything for his mental state and so of late he'd been spending his money on chemistry supplies and things to use on crime scenes and not giving a thought to the cost of anything else.

At this rate, living alone wasn't an option, so when Mike brought the army doctor to Barts, he leapt at the chance of moving into the flat at Baker Street. He knew the man-John Watson-would as well.

His concerns hit later when he was moving his things upstairs into 221b.

Sherlock knew he was being stupid.

He was an adult now, and passing was barely a term that applied to him anymore, because he hadn't been taken for a girl in many years. The only time people had ever found out about his biology was by accident, so really, so long as he was as careful as he could be, living with another person theoretically would be fine.

John Watson seemed pretty ordinary, as far as Sherlock was concerned. It was a happy accident that Mike had found the man, but a good one, because Sherlock was in need of some way of paying for half of Baker Street on his own. Not that he wasn't sure that Mrs Hudson would've made some allowance for him--the woman was the kindest he'd ever known--but she wasn't someone he wanted to take money from. Her cooking, baking and tea however, were a different matter.

He wanted to be accepted, however stupid that want was sometimes, and saw that John seemed to think he was impressive. So he brought the man along on the case, telling John how he did things and what he was seeing. Sherlock didn't want to admit it, but he liked that John said what he did was fantastic. Because no one else did.

His point of interest when getting back to 221b after finding the pink case was why John wasn't with him. And then he remembered that he'd left the man at the crime scene. So he shot a text, put on several nicotine patches, and waited.

'Just met a friend of yours,' John said. Sherlock opened his eyes in shock wondering who John could've possibly met. He didn't have any friends, to his knowledge.

'A friend?'

'Well, an enemy-arch enemy, according to him. Do people have arch enemies?'

Sherlock would've grinned at John's question if he hadn't been so furious. This was Mycroft, invading with his life again, as if Sherlock wasn't able to handle sharing a flat with another man by himself. But he decided that letting John know how far his frustrations ran wasn't an option. 'Did he offer you money to spy on me?' He'd selected John's most obvious point of pressure that Mycroft would've utilized. and at John's confirmation he asked, 'did you take it?'

'No.' But there was hesitation, as if John was questioning this entire scenario. Probably a good idea in his case.

Biting back a smile, Sherlock closed his eyes again, aware of John staring at him. Something that would've bothered him years ago, but now he could easily ignore. Anything he had to hide was well-hidden. 'Pity, we could've split the fee.'

John had smiled at that. John made Sherlock excited, for some reason. Excited that he had a person who was interested in him, and not just to keep him safe. So he sat in his chair anxiously, waiting for a minute to move, because everything right now made him want action, and alot of it. Before he knew it he was at Angelo's with John, and then running through the streets and rooftops after a cab--running had always helped him when he felt anything, so chasing criminals was always a good thing for him. The puzzles were one thing, but it was nothing compared to the blood-pumping thrill of a chase. He supposed adrenaline was his own kind of high-without the luxury of drugs anymore, he'd have to take every chance he could. 

It was when they ended up back at the flat, panting from exhaustion, but giggling with glee that Sherlock realized that he really liked John Watson and was glad he was moving in.

The happiness was broken only by the police showing up in their flat.

'Drugs bust,' Lestrade said grinning, but he had no idea what he was doing, not really, because even as he heard it, Sherlock could feel John moving to defend him, against accusations that were surprisingly real. 'This guy, a junky?' he heard and it was a matter of telling John to shut up-he didn't even know why; Lestrade was aware of the drugs and everyone else within earshot had guessed at some point of another, so it was probably only a matter of time before John found out about Sherlock's past at some point.

But no, drugs were a stupid thing to be mad over, especially when Sherlock had needles for testosterone injections hidden safely in his room where he knew no one here would find them. He wouldn't have minded if Sally did, but Anderson or any of the others would've been a problem. He realized if John ever managed to find them, he'd immediately think drugs now and Sherlock might be faced into a similar situation to the one he'd had with Lestrade more than a year previous.

It was all stupid.

 

It was strange, he pondered, sitting in the back of an ambulance and wondering how close he must've been to death at that point. Before the mysterious shooter had come into play, Sherlock hadn't really cared that much if he'd gotten the wrong pill.

To be honest, he thought, as he talked with John only minutes later, the man was onto something when he said Sherlock risked his life to prove he was clever. Perhaps he'd have more to learn from this John Watson than John from him.

Maybe a friend was an army doctor who came out of no where and was now moving in with him. Sherlock would've been lying if he'd said he wasn't excited by the prospect.

 

'That mother of yours' says some funny things, Sherlock.'

'I wouldn't listen to her, Mrs Hudson, she doesn't know about anything that she talks about.' He looked up at her. She'd asked if he wanted to have breakfast with her in her flat and he'd agreed; he'd found that he was very fond of the old woman, however strange she was at times. 'I suppose my brother put her in contact with you...a way for her to keep tabs on me or something.'

Mrs Hudson shook her head. 'He's another strange one, if you ask me.'

'I know.' Sherlock sighed. 'I think my family line is just a harvesting ground for strange people sometimes.'

'Your mother seems to think you're a girl sometimes, at any rate,' Mrs Hudson said, smiling faintly. 'The way she says it so casually-if I didn't know you myself, I might have believed it.'

Sherlock swallowed heavily, almost choking on his tea. 'Wh-what did she say?'

'Nothing, really, she just seemed concerned about you,' Mrs Hudson said shrugging. 'Mind you, I don't think we'll keep in contact. I got the impression that it was a one time affair.' She smiled at him.

He could live with that, but made a mental note to make his phone calls home less frequent. His mother had always been the least supportive of his family and her and Mycroft were two people he could use less of in his life. He was just glad that other people agreed.

 

It was the email from Sebastian that tore him apart slightly.


	8. The Bully Banker

'Trigger' had never been a word that had meant much to him, unless it was in reference to a gun. Sherlock had always been of the thought that he was in control over his own brain-even when Sally Donovan had decided to come onto him in the back of her car, he'd managed to stay in careful control of his thoughts and emotions.

He was on a slight high from fighting against the swordsman intent on getting him to resolve a case-or kill him. Sherlock was only glad that John had been out of the flat when it happened-he got to fight the man quickly and easily without John getting in the way or having to threaten anyone with his gun.

John's laptop was out and his was in the bedroom, so he used John's to check his email-a constant ritual in the hope of a stead flow of cases. He'd wanted a case. He hadn't wanted to see the email address and the words that came with it. "How're things buddy?" was definitely not the line to anything he wanted to read from Sebastian, ever.

Before he'd even read the entire email, his palms were sweating and his hands shook slightly. He could almost smell Sebastian's cologne and disgusting breath. 

It was a long while that he sat staring at the screen, wondering why this was happening, and why the idiot had contacted him. Sherlock knew no matter what he did it wasn't going to go well.

He'd composed himself somewhat by the time he'd heard John's feet on the stairs, but he sat for a while, thinking, only half listening to John's rambling (something about bills) before Sherlock decided that he was going to go and solve Sebastian's problem. And he barely admitted it, but he was glad when John came with him.

 

It was all Sherlock could do to keep his composure when they entered the bank. He knew he struck an impressive figure, but here was Sebastian, rich, holding an important job in a very important bank. But what he couldn't do was help but notice when Sebastian met his eyes to shake his hand, and then watched as he looked over Sherlock's body, looking for what he hadn't found years ago. Sherlock didn't give him the satisfaction of being rattled, but when he arrived home with John that night, he was more than ready to never see the man again.

'Everything okay?' John asked, partway through the case. Sherlock struggled not to roll his eyes at how deliberately offhand John was trying to sound.

'Why wouldn't it be?' If John was going to attempt normalcy, so would he.

'You've seemed...off since this whole thing started.' John hesitated slightly. 'Is it anything to do with Sebastian? It doesn't seem like you two were as close as he wants to seem.'

Sherlock inhaled deeply. 'There's really nothing to say about it, John.' He met John's eyes steadily. 'It's just annoying seeing him after a while, that's all.'

'Was he an idiot to you, like Donovan and Anderson are now?'

'Worse,' Sherlock said, before he could stop himself. He closed his eyes, wondering why John made him want to be honest. 'I'm completely past it.'

John nodded.

 

Only out of malice and the need to embarrass Sebastian did Sherlock interrupt his dinner. He knew that John could read this situation well, could see that Sherlock was being deliberately rude, but to his credit, didn't say anything.

Sebastian made the excuse that he needed to visit the loo and Sherlock proceeded to take those words literally, marching behind Sebastian into the toilet, John in tow. He glared at Sebastian, daring the man to say anything to undermine his gender, but he didn't seem like he wanted to.

His refusal to help on the case didn't make Sherlock happy either. He didn't consider them to even be anywhere close to friends anymore, but Sebastian's email opening with 'buddy' and his at least cordial respect made Sherlock speak out of desperation, because solving the case meant everything.

'Seb-' a nickname from uni, one that Sherlock had for a time been happy to call Wilkes. It didn't feel right on his tongue now; he wanted to delete the name or bury it in his memory palace.

Instead he focused on the frustration of figuring out how to progress in the case.

 

John said he wanted to collect their check from Sebastian-Sherlock didn't want it, but John had been complaining about bills earlier and had gotten a job, so Sherlock figured the money was probably needed. Taking money from Sebastian didn't seem right-his incentive was the Work-and the chance to find some way to spite and humiliate Sebastian had been fine. But the money was for John. And John wanting to take the check meant that Sherlock didn't need to face Sebastian one last time.

 

Two days later he received another email from the man. He hovered his mouse over it, debating. It could be something rude. It could be an apology. It could be a new case. Sherlock realized that John was staring at him from his chair.

'Alright?' John asked.

Sherlock looked back to his email and deleted the one from Sebastian before closing his laptop as he stood. 'Yeah. Tea?'


	9. History

The aftermath of dealing with Sebastian didn't treat Sherlock well, and the fact that he hadn't had a case in ages didn't help.

Moping on the sofa became a routine, and it wasn't long before he'd snapped at John about his blog. He watched John walk away from the window, and briefly considered the fact that the last thing he wanted was to drive John away permanently. He'd make tea the next day, Sherlock decided, holding an idle conversation with Mrs Hudson, debating whether to throw himself back onto the couch, or try for something productive. The bomb blast couldn't have come sooner.

Mycroft, however, could've waited.

'Just have a case for you,' he'd said, but Sherlock knew he was worried about the bomb and god knows what else. They'd argued for a long time and ended up sitting in Sherlock's and John's chairs, blatantly ignoring each other until John's footsteps were heard from the stairs. One of the best sounds in the world, if you'd asked Sherlock.

And then they were off, on a case, on Mycroft's case, tracking down Moriarty, and they didn't stop until they'd all left the pool that night.

 

Sherlock hadn't felt this fine with life for a long while. Life at Baker Street was comfortable. He was made to eat regularly, meaning he was healthier than he'd probably ever been thanks to John. It was strange, but Sherlock didn't mind it, at all. John didn't fuss. And Mrs Hudson did. And that was their relationship with each other. And he wouldn't admit it, but John and Lestrade's deepening friendship was something he appreciated. Both of them had changed his life in so many ways.

But all three of them tended to skirt around an issue that Sherlock knew had to be brought up at some point. 

Sherlock moved swiftly from the bedroom to the kitchen where Lestrade and John were peering over the body, plastic baggie clenched tightly in his hand. He knew this would mean alot more to Lestrade and probably John than it ever would to him--is if seeing the white powder would make him want to do drugs. He didn't work that way. And he was on a case.

'Drugs,' Sherlock said firmly, dropping the baggie on Lestrade's knee and watching as the crouching man jumped in surprise. Not sure if it's related to the case or not though.'

'Right,' Lestrade said, standing quickly. He met Sherlock's eyes. 'Well, we're gonna have to find that out, aren't we?' Sherlock didn't miss the silent look that the inspector shared with John and was instantly torn between mocking them and being silently angry at them. He settled for rolling his eyes.

He wasn't surprised to find Lestrade tentatively following him into a room, looking concerned.

'So?' he asked, not even bothering to turn. Lestrade's type of concern was tolerable, Sherlock knew that. But that didn't make it any less annoying when it was seemingly unfounded.

'So how've you been, drugs wise?' Lestrade walked next to Sherlock, and peered into the drawer that Sherlock was looking through.

'Fine,' Sherlock said. 'Without incident since before ... John happened.' The thought kind of shocked him, because it had been a long time since he'd used. Sometimes, there was that small nagging in the back of his mind, and he knew there always would be, but he was reasonably pleased to know that he was stronger than any urge to defile his veins. 

'Does John know about it then?' 

'He knows that you put up a very interesting argument that it was possible that I wasn't clean at your fake drugs bust the day after I met him.' Lestrade picked up a prescription bottle from the drawer and read the label before setting it back in the drawer and meeting Sherlock's eyes. 'And he knows that what I said that night was as close to talking about it or admitting it that I've come.'

'He asked me about it, you know. Just briefly.'

Sherlock swore. 'I wonder if it's fun for you people, constantly gossiping about my problems, using concern as an excuse--'

'He just asked me if you were honestly okay.' Lestrade's voice was on the verge of not being calm. 'Christ Sherlock, he's got an alcoholic sister, if you didn't know, and he was worried about needed to deal with another addict in his life. Told me he wouldn't be able to do it.' 

Sherlock blinked. 

'You ever wonder if people have motives other than _you_?'

'I'm used to it being out of a malicious need to control my life and prevent me from living happily,' Sherlock said shortly. 'Truthfully, people caring about my well-being isn't something I'm used to experiencing.'

'Well,' Lestrade sighed. 'Get used to it, you stupid sod.'

 

Sherlock places the tea cup next to John's armchair carefully and then sat in his own.

'What's this for?' John asked.

'Conversation we should've probably had the day after we met,' Sherlock said carefully. John put down what he was reading and looked at Sherlock intently.

'Is this about the case today?' 

Sherlock nodded. 'The drugs...thing. I don't have a drug problem. I mean, I did sort of have one. For a while. On and off. It was never completely serious. Well one time it was. But that was one time.' He was nervous, and he hated it. The drugs weren't exactly a point of weakness in his life and he had no problem talking about them, but Lestrade's reminder about John's sister made Sherlock nervous that John would be disappointed or upset.

'Yeah, you're idiot of a brother tried talking to me about that one time,' John said. Sherlock watched him drink tea and tried to keep down his rising anger as he registered that John didn't sound too happy about Mycroft's brand of concern either. 'I told him I didn't want to hear it.' John looked at Sherlock. 'It's not his problem, is it?'

A ghost of a smile flicked across Sherlock's lips.

'So you're clean now?'

Sherlock nodded. 'Have been for ages.' He fidgeted in his chair slightly. 'Lestrade's...the best dealing with the issue, but then again, he thinks a bag of cocaine at a crime scene has the potential to trigger a relapse.'

'So it doesn't.'

'No, snorting the powder gave me nosebleeds anyways; wasn't very nice.' He laughed at John's eyebrow going up. 'I said it wasn't a problem, but that doesn't mean that I haven't experimented more than the average person.'

'Do you think you're likely to go back to that?'

John's question was honest, and Sherlock considered that, and decided to be honest in return. 'Right now, no. If the need arose strongly enough...maybe. There's alot of factors against it, but given the right conditions...' He shrugged. 'Mycroft and his bloody checks on me whenever he finds out something that would be traumatic to a normal human being has happened.'

'Yeah he said he'd check in with me if he felt you were in danger.'

'I know he's had you search the flat once. And that you didn't find anything.'

John started. 'So... does that mean you do have drugs here?' He frowned.

Sherlock smiled. 'I have cigarettes, which also seems to concern him. Nicotine, well, that is my addiction.'

He was grateful when John left it at that.

 

It was a late night case, but Sherlock was always thinking more clearly on those. John was with Donovan asking the neighbors about what they'd seen and Lestrade had gone to check something with some of his team. Anderson was with the body, so Sherlock was waiting for any new developments. It was at Anderson's admission that the crime hadn't been committed more than ten minutes ago that Sherlock realized it was likely the criminal was still in the area.

It had taken some of a walk to get here from the main road. The criminal wouldn't have tried to take the main road because if he was smart, he would've realized that it held the potential for him to run into someone. And as the weapon was still missing, Sherlock figured that a man with a knife was certain to take the alleyways.

He took off running, hoping that the killer knew the area less well than Sherlock. Because that meant Sherlock had a definite catch waiting for him.

It was several twists and turns down the way before he rounded a dark corner without even thinking that he felt a white hot pain beneath his ribs on his left side.

Sherlock prided himself on being able to keep himself together in a crisis. He wasn't about to black out. He most likely wasn't dying. The knife was evidence. The killer would most likely jerk the thing out of him and run. The knife wasn't hitting any vitals.

He did the only thing that mad sense to him: put his hands over the killer's and pulled the knife towards him, struggling with the killer to avoid loosing the knife. Finally, the man let go and fled, leaving Sherlock to stagger against a wall and use his scarf to gently pull out the knife, in the hopes that there would still be some kind of fingerprints on it. Then he staggered back to the crime scene.

'Where the hell did you go?' Anderson's snobby voice range out and Sherlock mentally protested--no not him, not the idiot, he needed Lestrade--as his legs shook and a wave of pain washed over him and he fell on his knees with a slight noise of pain. 'Oh, Jesus--'

Anderson rushed over, grabbing Sherlock's upper arms and gently lowering him onto his back. 'Stabbed?'

Sherlock raised his hand, clutching the scarf-wrapped weapon. 'Evidence, he said weakly. 'Could you call Lestrade?'

'No, I'm calling for a bloody ambulance!' Anderson said quickly as he pulled out his phone with one hand and tried to move Sherlock's coat away from the wound.

Sherlock tried to protest as Anderson hung up, apparently intent on seeing the damage so he could figure out how to stop the bleeding, but that would involve Sherlock opening his shirt, and the last person he wanted to see his mastectomy scars, faded as they were, was Anderson.

'Don't-' he said, trying to grab Anderson's wrist.

'Stop being such an idiot, you're not fine, and someone needs to make sure you don't bleed out before the damn ambulance gets here.' Anderson said angrily

Sherlock panicked as Anderson managed to get Sherlock's shirt open at the buttons. This was it the stupid idiot was going to say something. He watched as Anderson's eyes flicked across Sherlock's chest, and then settled on the large wound just below his ribs. In a matter of seconds, Anderson had his hands over it, applying a steady pressure in an attempt to keep the bleeding down.

'Quit being such a prat,' Anderson muttered. 'There are lot's of explanations for those and anyways,' he met Sherlock's eyes steadily, his firm and determined. 'I have a cousin, Jean, who used to be James.' His eyes didn't leave Sherlock's. 'As I keep trying to tell you, I'm. Not. Stupid.'

The pressure he was keeping on Sherlock's wound grew heavier with Anderson's final statement and Sherlock lurched in pain, realizing the wound was deeper than he'd initially thought.

'Hang on, they're probably almost here...' Anderson muttered, looking concerned and Sherlock felt his head growing fuzzy with blood loss. 

'Anderson?' Came Lestrade's voice, and Anderson swore quietly before looking at Sherlock.

'Hey, c'mon, stay awake, this is important...'

Sherlock groaned quietly, clenching his fist as his side in pain. 'Lestrade knows, John doesn't...' He could feel himself loosing consciousness and wasn't keen on fainting in front of Anderson.

'Sherlock? Oh Christ...'

'Anderson has the knife,' Sherlock said weakly. 'Evidence...'

'Do you know how bloody stupid you are?' Lestrade asked incredulously. 'Because I think you're the most stupid person I've ever met.'

Sherlock didn't have a chance to respond as his eyes slid up in his head and his world went black.

 

'I thought you wanted me as your doctor, doesn't that mean I should see your bloody medical history?' John asked.

Sherlock sighed in the cab next to him. He'd been adamant that john not know. Lestrade had sighed, but been silent. 

'What are you trying to hide, anyways? I already know about the drugs.'

'Stop, please,' Sherlock looked at him seriously. 'If any of it becomes medically necessary, you're allowed to know about it. But it wasn't in this case, okay?'

'As long as there's not some life-threatening allergy or condition that I should've known about years ago, John muttered grumpily. He looked at Sherlock for a long time.

Sherlock turned to look out the window. He knew he was fighting a loosing battle being stealth with John. He slept naked alot of the time, for God's sakes; who knew when something accidental might happen. He knew it would have probably been easier to just let John see his medical history, but he still felt that his biology should remain private, even from his best friend, for as long as he could keep it so.

'If it's important, you'll tell me?' John asked finally.

Sherlock nodded. 'Of course.' It was only reasonable.


	10. Revelevance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> *slight transphobia, suicidal ideation/talk of*

To be honest, any sort of fame was the last thing he needed. But somehow, John's stupid blog had been discovered by more than a few people and now they were in the papers, people speculating about them and their private lives...it would have been annoying, if not for the sudden influx of cases.

'You might want to take a break now and again,' John commented over lunch one day. 'You're gonna burn yourself out if you keep this up.'

'Brain's what counts,' Sherlock muttered, flicking through the messages on his blog on his phone. 'Body's just transport.'

John sighed. 'Yeah transport for the brain, but don't you think it matters at all?'

'Used to,' Sherlock said, setting down his phone and accepting the frown John gave him.

'I really wish you weren't so bloody cryptic all the time,' John said, shaking his head and going back to his sandwich.

 

Two days later Mycroft's people were trying to get him to come to Buckingham Palace, fully clothed. He knew that they were trying to make him do it out of decency, but he also knew that it would be worse for Mycroft if Sherlock came in his sheet. Something about "baby brother" not being biologically male would probably put Mycroft in a bad mood. Anything to make Mycroft uncomfortable was enough to make Sherlock happy.

He and John exchanged looks before John sat next to him. It was a mark of how comfortable Sherlock at gotten with John that when the man scrutinized his groin area, Sherlock didn't even flinch.

'Are you wearing any pants?' John asked.

'No.' Sherlock said slowly. He was having trouble containing himself and hoped John also saw how ridiculous their situation was. He tried to half glance at John in the hopes that laughing wouldn't be out of place and then he saw John's expression and was relieved when they both broke out laughing simultaneously. 

He'd always wanted a friend like John.

Mycroft, however, hadn't been so amused. When Sherlock's sheet nearly fell due to Mycroft's foot on the tail of it, Sherlock was torn between embarrassing his brother and simply dealing with the situation.

'Get off my sheet!' he hissed, hoping Mycroft would gladly comply.

He didn't. 'Or what?'

'Or I'll just walk away.' He tried to sound offhand, but Mycroft had always been better than him at reading people, and he knew that Mycroft would see his refusal to even turn towards them as a sign that Sherlock was mostly bluffing.

'I'll let you,' Mycroft said calmly, and Sherlock knew it was lost. It was stupid arguing with his brother. But then again, his brother was naked without so much as a tie on, needing some veil of professional protection from everything, so Sherlock at least had an upper hand in what others would strip off him.

He prided himself in at least having that.

'Sherlock?'

'John, busy.' Sherlock had been trying to get through a chemistry experiment for the entire day, and John had gotten so annoyed that he'd decided to clean the flat. It had been peaceful, because Sherlock and John both deemed talking to each other too much disruption.

'No, Sherlock, serious here. What is this?'

John's voice was at a struggle to sound calm, and that set Sherlock off. The bathroom, his testosterone was in the bathroom.

'Oh _hell_ Sherlock muttered under his breath, standing and taking a few long strides to the bathroom. 'John--'

'Sherlock, you've got needles here, you better tell me that you're clean right now,' John said, his voice low.

'I am clean,' Sherlock said, struggling to keep his voice even. 'It's not even drugs, I swear.'

John looked at the bottle briefly before looking at Sherlock. 'What is it then?'

'Experiment,' Sherlock said quickly. John's jaw worked for a couple seconds and Sherlock knew that his answer had probably been the worst one to give.

'You can't just experiment with testosterone, Sherlock. You can't just inject yourself with this stuff, there's reasons why it gets prescribed to people...' John looked at Sherlock. 'I'm being serious here, why would you mess around with this stuff? Just for the hell of it?'

John's words echoed Mycroft's of years ago and Sherlock cringed, probably visibly, feeling anger start in his chest slightly. So what if John knew, he was sick of this, he didn't want John to think he was messing with their trust by injecting himself, he didn't want to have to lie to John if he ever found the box again, the whole thing was just stupid.

'Okay, it's mine.' 

The words were out of his mouth before he could even think twice about them and John was blinking slowly, looking slightly confused.

'Check the label it's mine. I lied, it's not an experiment it's medical. I swear. It's on my medical history, I can let you see the damn thing if you want...'

John's eyes wandered to the label and he frowned at it. 'Why...?'

Sherlock closed his eyes and spoke between his teeth. 'I have a condition. I was born with it. It'll never be fixed, but testosterone helps. I was born in a body that was chemically and physically different then what it was supposed to be. I was born like this and I'll be like this until the day I die.' He looked into John's eyes, still filled with confusion and he sighed, hating the situation, hating this, hating himself. 'I'm transgender, John.'

'What?' John blinked and stood slowly with the bottle still looking confused. 'So you're a woman?'

Sherlock felt himself flinch visibly, anger rising quickly in him, feeling the urge to punch John and run, but no, no that wouldn't help, that wouldn't do anything but hurt them both. 'No.' He was aware of how low his voice was getting in his icy calm.

John put the box down and put a hand over his eyes. 'But you've got...what?' His hand slid over his face and his eyes roamed over Sherlock's body. Sherlock felt his skin crawl and something in his stomach clench.

'John--' He was going to be sick.

'I'm not--I just...' John sighed heavily and when he looked at Sherlock, his expression was unreadable, and Sherlock could count the number of times John's eyes faltered downwards...He hated himself for outing himself, he could've said testosterone deficiency, he could've been reasonable... 

'I need to think about this,' John said finally, and his jaw was doing the movement again; Sherlock glanced over John's stance--struggling to avoid confrontation.

Sherlock nodded mutely, feeling his throat closing tightly and wishing he could've changed anything about today to fix it.

'I just...I need to think.' And he left, grabbing his coat. Sherlock flinched at the sound of the front door slamming shut and didn't even bother to cross to the window to watch John walk away. 

He really felt like he was going to throw up, and he felt his hands shaking, thinking about John's words "you're a woman". Sherlock sat down on the edge of the bathtub and ran his fingers through his curls, hating everything, wondering why he couldn't just respond rationally to this, why he couldn't calm down and just _deal_ with it?

He needed Redbeard, if he was honest with himself. Moreover, if he was completely honest, he'd say he needed John. 

 

Twenty minutes later John still wasn't back and Sherlock was laying on his back on the sofa, turning John's gun around in his hands. He didn't even know why he had it; after Victor's talk with him in uni about destroying his body, the years since had decreased his want to die. But rejection from John wasn't something Sherlock wanted to face. John had literally been the driving force in Sherlock pushing himself forward into a better life, one that he was happier with. And rejection from the main person who cared wasn't something he wanted at all.

He briefly registered the sound of the front door closing and John's careful step on the stairs.

'Sherlock--' John stopped and knew without looking that the other man had frozen in the door. 'Oh god.'

'What do you think? Too much mess for Mrs Hudson?' Sherlock tried to say it lightly but he saw in John's face that he'd failed. 'Don't want to over upset her,' he said half-heartedly.

'Jesus, I--' John put his face in his hands. 'I'm sorry,' he said finally.

Sherlock shrugged. 'Given the circumstances, it was a perfectly ordinary response. I've had worse anyways,' he offered calmly.

'Yeah but I shouldn't have...' John sighed and slowly moved to sit on the edge of the coffee table, watching the gun in Sherlock's hands with a weary eye. 'It's just not something I've...come across before,' he said softly. 'And I mean...from you I just didn't expect it...'

Sherlock closed his eyes and sighed faintly. He still couldn't tell how John felt. He wanted to shoot more holes in the wall but knew that wouldn't help.

'I don't think you're a woman.'

Sherlock looked at him.

'I know you're not a woman, honestly. It was just the first thing that came into my head because...Christ, Sherlock, I'm a doctor I deal with biology and I just...' John met his eyes. 'You're not a woman. I never would've even know if you hadn't told me. And everything I said was completely stupid and I want to just...try that whole conversation again.'

'I don't think it was something either of us were particularly prepared for,' Sherlock agreed softly. 

'How long have you known?' John asked quietly.

Sherlock flicked a smile. 'Bit better there. Ever since I can remember.' He looked at John. 'My family was decent with it. Better than most, not enough from me. Mycroft treats me like...' He closed his eyes again and drew in a breath, 'like I'm still a younger sister so we still don't completely get on well.'

John nodded. 'So was this...why you wanted to hide your medical history?'

'Testosterone prescription, mastectomy... I didn't want you to...to find out.' He looked at John. 'Lestrade knows. Anderson found out that night I was stabbed and he kept me from bleeding out of the pavement. Sally found out when she stuck her hands down my trousers around when I first met her. Sebastian also found out when we were at uni.' He couldn't read John's face. 'But that's it.'

'Is that why Sally calls you--'

'She doesn't like how happy I get around murders; she's ignored my gender ever since,' Sherlock said quickly. 'She's honestly not a bad woman, but she did get...upset when she found out.' He closed his eyes. 'Most people did.'

'Sherlock.'

'Mmm?'

'Do you still need the gun?'

Sherlock opened his eyes and met John's that were still flooded with worry. 'No,' he said. He looked away as he handed it to John. 'I think it was just an idea. Probably wouldn't have done it; suicide's pretty irrational.'

'I would've used the gun,' John said softly, and Sherlock's eyes snapped back to his friend's face as his stomach dropped slightly. 'Before we met...it was...on my mind.' He looked at Sherlock. 'And you're right, it is pretty irrational.'

'I erm...' Sherlock cleared his throat awkwardly, not knowing what to say from there.

'Are you okay?' John was watching him. 'Do you want tea?'

Sherlock nodded. 'John,' he called after his friend and John turned at the opening to the kitchen. 'I...Thanks.'


	11. Closed

'I have half a mind to tell John that you're smoking right now,' Lestrade commented.

Sherlock had missed their smoke breaks on cases-ever since Lestrade had quit, Sherlock felt like they'd been missing something. He knew it was stupid for him to keep the habit up, especially around Lestrade, but he didn't want to drop it.

'Those things'll kill you, you know.' 

'That matters alot more now than it did a few years back,' Sherlock said, blowing out smoke. Then he sighed. 'John found out.'

'About?' Lestrade was looking at him questioningly and Sherlock had a moment to realize yet again that what was always obvious to him was not always obvious to others.

'About the whole transgender thing,' Sherlock said calmly.

'I always forget that that problem even exists until you bring it up,' Lestrade laughed. He shook his head. 'And how was that?'

Sherlock shrugged. 'He found the needles and assumed like you did that they were for drug use. He...wasn't as initially accepting as you were.'

'But is it all okay now?' Lestrade asked.

'Seems like it.' Sherlock turned away from Lestrade's eyes. 'Not even sure why I'm telling you this,' he muttered quietly. He wasn't someone who opened himself to people or trusted them.

Lestrade chuckled quietly. 'Probably because it matters to you.'

'It really doesn't,' Sherlock said quietly.

Lestrade laughed. 'Yeah it does.' He shook his head.

 

'What were you called before Sherlock?' John asked.

'Were you suicidal before you got shot, or was it just out of boredom from not being in the war?' Sherlock returned lowly. He met John's eyes evenly until the other man registered the sensitivity of the question he'd just asked. Sherlock figured that it was probably a learning experience for the both of them, so while he wasn't angry, the words and thoughts associated with them made his skin crawl. 

'"Freak",' he said quietly, after he was sure that John expected not to receive an answer.

It made him perversely happy to see John flinch at the word; flinch as he would for so long. Again, he was being purposefully cutting with John--it was the only way he knew to make a point. Not with kind words or patience, but with remarks that would send. the message. home.

'Sorry,' John said, biting his lip. Sherlock shook his head.

'My point is that before "Sherlock" there was nothing else. Only things that were wrong and painful. And even while I was called Sherlock when I was younger, I had to strive to prove that it wasn't a girl's name; that there was nothing female about Sherlock Holmes and who he is.' Sherlock met John's eyes firmly. 'Sometimes I still feel like I need to prove it. As I said, I will have this problem all my life.'

John shook his head. 'You shouldn't have to.'

Sherlock hesitated, thinking. 'John...you know I'm not really comfortable with ...feelings, let alone being open with them.' John nodded as he paused, feeling slightly unsure. 'This is more than just my emotions, this is a part of my life I have worked very hard to pretend, at least to others, had never even existed. To nearly every person I know, I was born with the biology that the perceive me to have now. Any of my previous struggles, transgender related or not, are kept private from most people, and for good reason, believe me.' He paused again, looking at John. 'So...I would appreciate it if you could refrain from bringing it up in most cases. Although being open with you is...not unpleasant, I'd still prefer that my past remain my own.'

'No, it's fine,' John said quickly and Sherlock felt a small twinge of relief course through him. 'I can understand that.' He met Sherlock's eyes. 'To be honest I'm not all that good at being completely open either...'

'Although you are of course an open book,' Sherlock said.

'Alright, enough,' John said, shaking his head and walking out of the room. Sherlock smirked.

 

'You have no idea how stupid this is.'

Sherlock blinked. 'To be fair, I think it was your idea.'

'You want me to give Moriarty anything I can on you, just to see if I _can_ find out about him?'

'Oh come on, Mycroft.' Sherlock shot his brother a sarcastic look. He hated his brother's office and yet recently it had become their place of meeting, of planning. If the two still hadn't been angry so much, Sherlock would've said it was alot like them as kids--their own secret meetings talking about what no one wanted them too. 'The greater good and all that--the needs of the many, isn't that the saying?'

'Sherlock-'

'Just do your bloody plan and I'll do my end and you can worry your fat ass off about me later.'

He hated it, really. Dealing with Moriarty and having to pretend to John that he had no idea what was going on. Sherlock felt like lying to John was getting harder and harder for him. And now he was throwing himself off a building for the man.

 

 

It was impossibly stupid, he realized, becoming this fond of John Watson. He'd literally had a panic attack in front of someone for the first time since Victor, and that was with John by the fire. The familiar feeling and the outright illogical, irrational fear had put him on edge, he'd ended up snapping at John.

An hour later he found himself staring at the wall of the inn he knew was shared by John's room, wishing they'd been able to have gotten the double room just so he could apologize or maybe attempt at an explanation.

The following day, that was all he attempted to do.

 

 

It was shortly after faking his death that Sherlock met with Mycroft for what would probably be the last time in a year or more.

'Do you have any idea how dangerous this is?'

'You first warned me about how stupid it is, now it's about dangers.' Sherlock glared at his brother. 'Is this you protecting your stupid little sister again?'

'FOR GOD'S SAKE SHERLOCK!' Mycroft blinked and then took a breath. 'I have only ever seen you as my younger brother. I've only ever seen you as who you are. Because unlike our dear mother I have a half a brain.' Sherlock frowned and watched his brother straighten slightly. Everything about this line of conversation was about to put them both off, he could tell. 'However, your _condition_ makes everything alot worse for you, do you not realize that?'

'So what you're saying that it's dangerous for me because of my genitalia?' Sherlock shook his head. 'Fuck off.'

'Remember when I warned you about dangers of transgender people when you were younger?' Mycroft sighed. 'Imagine being kidnapped and having people who already wish you harm finding out.'

Sherlock rolled his eyes. 'It would be worth it to keep everyone safe.'

'John Watson means that much to you then?'

'And Mrs Hudson, and Lestrade,' Sherlock said steadily, looking at his brother, knowing that his emotions towards John Watson were a secret to everyone save for his brother and Mrs Hudson.' He looked at Mycroft. 'I suppose it's lucky for all of us that Richard Brook didn't seem to have any knowledge of my ...condition.'

Mycroft shifted. 'Yes, well...' He sighed. 'One thing to important to leak, I think. Mummy would murder me in my bed if I did that anyways.'

Sherlock smirked. 'Well, I supposed I'll see you whenever I've taken care of all these idiots.'

'Tread carefully, dear brother. You're no use to your...friends dead.'


	12. Lazarus

If he was serious with himself, this was the only time he'd been in any real danger in the two years that had passed.

He's been captured before, once by the same people, and been fine. But since they'd reclaimed him after his escape, he was sure that he wasn't going to make it out of this small cell alive.

It'd been days (four of them--he'd always had a good sense for time) since they'd brought Sherlock in and started to strip him. For a moment he was terrified that they'd fully undress him and his biological state would have been revealed, but they'd settled for his shirt only. They'd beaten him for a few hours, asking for information, and then left, only to return shortly after.

His torturer was allowed sleep. Sherlock was not.

And now four days later Sherlock knew he either had to be completely right in his deductions and play them at the right time, or he was bound to be injured in a way that would prevent further escape.

So he talked to his captor, hating how pained and weak his voice sounded, only to prevent the heavy pipe from potentially breaking his shoulder.

And his deductions were right. 

The last thing he'd hoped for, even in his stupidest fantasies, was that the man seated in the chair to his right would have been Mycroft.

But then a harsh voice was whispering in his ear and he sobered up enough to grin as Mycroft said more loudly, 'Back to Baker Street, Sherlock Holmes.'

 

 

'You've been asleep the entire flight home,' Mycroft said, as Sherlock sat up in his seat, realizing they were back in England. 'Even after you insisted you wouldn't sleep.'

'I suppose we all have limits,' Sherlock grumbled, trying to hide the horrible wince he made as he stretched. From Mycroft's eyebrow, he failed miserably.

'We'll get someone to check those wounds out,' Mycroft said calmly.

'No, I'm fine,' Sherlock muttered. He knew he wasn't, not by a long shot, but the last thing he wanted was too many of Mycroft's people fussing over him. 'A haircut and a shave wouldn't go amiss though.' He would take advantage in some areas though.

'You can have both after someone's made sure you're not seriously injured.'

Sherlock didn't see the point in protesting so he put up with Mycroft's people long enough to hear Mycroft's assignment and figure out where John was. After that, there was no point in staying around with his brother, not for a while.

'I've been reliably informed that I don't have one,' was what he'd said years ago to Moriarty, the first time they'd met face to face. Though even then it had been a lie.

His heart had once lain with an animal, one who'd died long ago. Later it had belonged to the boy who knew in uni, the one with scars up his arms and a careless laugh always on his face, one who'd died in his arms and made him realize so much about life. And now his heart lay with so many people in his life, but most of all to an army doctor, one who'd saved him in so many ways.

In his more honest moments of late, he'd come to terms with the fact that John wasn't only his best friend, but someone he cared about far more deeply than any other person. He found himself more than once over the past two years thinking that if he did manage to get back to John Watson, Sherlock would tell his friend everything, including perhaps bear all and say what John meant to him.

But he stood outside the restaurant and wondered if that would be a promise he would keep to himself.

Walking in and seeing John for the first time in three years made him nervous. In half a heartbeat he was throwing together a simple disguise, without any idea as to why he was really doing it. He told himself that John would be happy being surprised, but he knew that it was probably as stupid idea.

It was only after he came back with the bottle of champagne that he realized that John had a date, one he was legitimately serious about, and that he had in fact probably messed up alot more than he thought.

'Short version...not dead.' Half of him wanted to hug John, the other half felt in high stress, making slightly nervous jokes, exchanging looks with John's date--who'd actually smiled, which was interesting. John's previous girlfriends had all hated him.

It only fully hit him how stupid he was being when John tackled him to the floor and attempted to strangle him in anger, Sherlock clutching at his friend's wrists in an attempt to find a way to move off his injured back and failing miserably. His only thought as they were thrown from the restaurant was how glad he was that John didn't notice that he was injured. Though it might have caused John to talk to him more out of sympathy, Sherlock preferred honest truth.

And then he was tackled and head butted and by the end of the night, starting to think that things between him and John might never be completely normal again.

'You know nothing about human nature, do you?'

He questioned the way she looked at him. Like a tamer version of John. Impressed, elated. As if he was some fictional character that had come to life in front of her. Though Sherlock probably was that, given the news reports and John's blog.

'Nature? No,' he said. Then more quietly, 'Human?...No.' Sometimes he wanted to be human so badly, sometimes he wanted to be anything but. If he was honest, he'd say he'd been looking for verification as a human his entire life and her husband to be was one of only a handful of people who consistently gave it to him. He watched them drive away, feeling his nose throbbing and thinking that at least he had this pain from contact from John to hold onto.

 

Molly'd been angry with him for not phoning first. She'd also realized he wasn't doing so well, but he wasn't ready to have tea time at the home of Molly Hooper.

'Have you seen John yet?' Molly asked quietly. He eyed her.

'He ... wasn't happy to see me.' Sherlock thought for a moment. 'His fiancee however seems ... nice.' He bit his lip. 'Mary Morstan.'

Molly smiled.

'What?'

'This is the first time you've remembered one of his girlfriend's names.'

'Is it?' he muttered. She was still smiling, biting her lip slightly, and he realized how much he'd missed that smile. As annoying as he found he sometimes, it shocked him when he thought about how important Molly was to him.

 

He knew that fully surprising Lestrade would be the best way to do anything. He followed him to the parking garage of Scotland Yard, knowing that the detective's furtive looks meant that he was back to smoking. He missed their cigarette breaks.

'Those things'll kill you,' he said, before Lestrade could light the thing, echoing the detective's words from years previous. He wondered how much stock those words had now, coming from a dead man.

'Oh you bastard,' Lestrade said, taking the cigarette out of his mouth and turning to face Sherlock.

To be honest, Sherlock never could get the man's first name right. Lestrade was too uncommon a man for such a boring name. He wondered what they would do from here, if it would be awkward between the two of them, where they would go next; but before he knew it, Lestrade was pulling him into a very tight hug and Sherlock let out a groan of discomfort before he could help himself, but smiled slightly. He could tell Lestrade was relieved that he was back, and that was more than Sherlock could've asked of anyone.

'You alright, then?' Lestrade asked, when he'd finally let go.

Sherlock nodded. 'Been a long two years. But it's been alright.' He caught Lestrade's look, reading in an instant that the detective was worried for any drug use. He looked away briefly before looking at Lestrade. 'Way too much going on for any slip ups to happen, believe me.'

Lestrade nodded. 'You're bloody insane, do you know that? Hell, Anderson's been telling me for the whole time that you've been alive but...' Lestrade shook his head. 'Couldn't let myself have any false hope.'

'Anderson? Really?'

'Thought he was just guilty.' Lestrade smiled sadly. 'To be honest, he probably was.' He snorted. 'So what if we threw flour on you and took you too see Donovan? Think she'd apologize for calling you a fake?'

Sherlock chuckled, an honest laugh that felt foreign in his ribcage, but also blessedly amazing. 'She was only doing her job. Besides, all the evidence at the time pointed to me being a fake-'

'Alright, shut up now you're being depressing.' Lestrade smiled at him. 'It's good to have you back, Sherlock.'

Sherlock smiled.


	13. Catching Back Up

Mrs Hudson had screamed, at first. Sherlock wasn't one to underestimate her strength-he'd seen her in the worst situations before-and yet in this case, he instantly was concerned. It was in the middle of hurrying over to make sure she wouldn't collapse or faint that he had to duck under a soapy frying pan, aimed at him in anger from the woman in question.

He tensed as he stood up, muscle memory preparing him for a more lethal attack, but his brain telling him everything was fine.

'You had us all so worried!' She shouted, and then her shoulders slumped and she shook her head at him, tears in her eyes. Sherlock stepped into her open arms and hugged her back, gratefully. 'I thought we'd lost you,' she said tearfully. 'How could you...?'

'I'm sorry, Mrs Hudson,' Sherlock said sadly, realizing her words had echoed John's from earlier in the evening. 'I promise, it wasn't without good reason.'

She squeezed him gently before holding his elbows, standing in front of him at arms' length and looking him over. 'You look tired,' she pronounced after a while. 'Do you want to get some sleep?'

'Not that kind of tired,' Sherlock said, shaking his head.

'Tea, then,' Mrs Hudson said firmly, leading him into her flat and sitting him at the table. 'I've got biscuits as well.'

Sherlock sat, smiling slightly, relieved to be back with Mrs Hudson. He'd missed her fussing, if he was honest, as much as he would often complain to himself or John.

'Sherlock, your nose is bleeding.'

He swore under his breath and rushed to his feet, putting a hand over his face and accepting tissues from Mrs Hudson. She peered at his face.

'It looks swollen,' she said softly. 'Did something happen?'

Sherlock, despite himself, chuckled. That something was the confrontation between John and him. Did something happen? If only she'd seen the rest of his body, thoroughly-abused from his time away. 'John wasn't too pleased to see me,' he said.

She made a sympathetic sound. 'He'll come round, you'll see.'

Sherlock smiled.

Much later he held the needle filled with his testosterone prescription for the first time in months. Longer, even. He'd told Mycroft it wouldn't make sense for him to stay on it when he wasn't sure that he would have access to it most of the time. His fingers trembled and he felt a thrill of comfort bubble up in his chest as he injected himself. It wasn't the needle that caused him relief-not anymore-just the knowledge of its contents and their effect on him.

He kept telling himself it was his capture that had nearly killed him, when his dysphoria during his time off hormones had had nearly the same effect.

Sherlock laid in his own bed that night, for the first time in months, and tried to ignore his protesting back and think only of attempting to get sleep, real sleep.

'Would you like to solve crimes?' he asked Molly, frowning when she said 'have dinner?' at the same time. They shared a breath's awkward glance and then Molly laughed.

'Sure.' She shed her coat and sat down, looking up at him. 'Just tell me what to do.' 

They spent the entire day solving minor crimes, interviewing clients, and checking out a man's story about a train. If he was honest, it was the most fun he'd had in two years, and also the most comfortable he'd been in that long too.

'You need to talk to John,' Molly said, when they'd been nearing the end of the day.

'I tried. It didn't work. All that's left is to leave it for now.' He shook his head.

'No.' Molly said firmly, and then hesitated. 'He wasn't okay when he thought you were dead, Sherlock.' She frowned. 'Kept asking me to see your body, had the idea it wouldn't be yours, said he wanted to look for certain scars-' Sherlock flinched visibly, '-he didn't take it well. So of course he's angry with you.' She looked away for him. 'I think he's mad that you didn't take him with you, that you let him mourn-'

'LIKE IT'S BEEN FUN?' Sherlock shouted and Molly blinked. 'Oh sure, a week in a cell with no sleep or light was a walk in the park. What wonderful adventures I've got to share with him from my two years absence. Should I start with the waterboarding? Or the time I escaped and a helicopter chased me down in the dark? Or when I was cornered with 18 soldiers with heavy guns a hair's breath away from finding me? Yeah, it's been a great adventure, just in line with the one's on his damn blog-'

'Sherlock!' Molly had tears in her eyes. 'Stop, please.' She pulled him into a hug before he could stop her, clutching him gently-had he been showing signs of pain around her? 'John needs to know that, not me. Please. Just talk to him.' She looked up at him and he swallowed heavily. 

'I'll try,' he said softly. Sherlock didn't want to talk to John, about any of his experiences. He didn't want to hear what John had gone through during the two years. He wanted everything to be normal, or as normal is it could get, as easily as possible.

 

He'd just gotten in the door and was in the middle of eating some well-missed chips when he heard the voice on the stairs, talking with Mrs Hudson.

'Mary?' he called, hearing the worst and panicking. He'd just gotten back; John shouldn't be kidnapped...

He had little time to wonder how she knew about skip codes before he was leading her out the door, stopping a motorcycle speeding at them, and, for some reason, letting her come with him. Sherlock had little time to wonder about his instant trust in Mary Morstan, as he thought of the quickest routes, the rain coming down gently, his only hope that John would be alright when they got there.


	14. Renewal

"So did you find it then, your lottery ticket?"

One thing Sherlock had always appreciated about his parents was their ability to understand that he was always hearing, even when he had his eyes closed or was busy. They could drabble on about their boring, simple lives, and he could attempt to find the terrorist cell in London for Mycroft. He and his parents could be in the same room, and yet, as always, they could be in two different universes. They didn't know much about him anymore, but they didn't know that. They were content.

He was happy with them being there, until John walked in.

"No, not clients, no." Sherlock gave a wincing look to John, praying he would for once understand.

but of course his stupid mother would stick her foot in the door and beg him to stay in touch. 

"She worries," William Holmes said, almost sternly.

Sherlock sighed, thinking that his mother always worried too much or not enough. She brushed his cheek with her hand and he slammed the door on them both.

"Sorry about that," he said, turning to John. He was going to ask about everything, the whole relationship, the whole "then why are you like this?" question sherlock always got. "if your parents are so normal why aren't you?"

"They're just so...ordinary." John looked at Sherlock and Sherlock looked back and blinked.

"It's a cross I have to bear," he said. And they left it at that.

Everything was awkward silences and too long pauses, treading water, walking on eggshells, trying to figure out how to talk to each other again. They'd had many fights in their relationship but nothing like this.

They'd argued again, some minutes later, over Sherlock's parents knowing he was alive while John could not.

"Sorry! Sorry again!" Sherlock said, exasperated. He'd apologized more to John over the past two days than he had to anyone ever in his life and he was sick of waiting for things to improve between the two of them. It was silent for a beat. Sherlock calmed. 

"Sorry," he said more seriously, softly, honestly this time. John looked over at him but didn't reply.

Sherlock would beg for his forgiveness if only John would've asked.

 

He ended up begging for it later that night, sitting them both in a train with a bomb, tricking John into believing they both would die...sherlock had been fairly certain that they wouldn't have. He'd begged, John had been sincere, and they walked away laughing, things somehow remarkably fixed. It was everything Sherlock needed.

"Do we need to talk about these past two years?" was something either of them asked over the next several weeks. they didn't talk about the past, only moved gratefully and quickly into the future, resuming solved cases, working with Lestrade. Sherlock appreciated it greatly, reminded again that his friendship with John was so great because they didn't always need to communicate everything to each other. How they felt, what was going on...so much of it could stay unspoken.

John was trying to keep him off cigarettes, which were usually his go to habit when bored or alone. Lestrade probably would've punched him by now for smoking again if the detective hadnt been so happy to just have sherlock back. Sherlock figured it might be good for him to quit while Lestrade was still happy to have him around.

So he took back to insane science projects, thinking up the strangest and most time consuming experiments he could to do while he wasn't with John, or on a case, or anywhere else. Blowtorching an eyeball had been a last resort of the day, so Sherlock had been glad when John came in. He'd expected a nice talk.

He had not expected to be made best man for John's wedding. It was not something he had ever expected, to mean so much to John Watson that the man would pick him over anyone else in his life for best man. John meant more to him than anyone else in the world but he'd never known exactly what John thought of him.

"So you mean that I'm your...best...friend?" Sherlock asked, struggling to find words in his shock.

"Yes." John looked at him and nodded. "Course you are. You're my best friend."

It wasn't long before John left and Sherlock found himself flinging himself towards his computer, googling "best man" and reading for ten minutes what the duty would entail. A speech.

Sherlock knew right away that John could've chosen any man on the planet and they would have turned out to be more qualified for this than him.

 

"so why the hell did you give me a heart attack asking for help?" 

"In my defense, I never dreamed you would've called for full backup just for me asking for help."

"you never ask for help," Lestrade said grumpily. "What do you think I would've thought?"

"When was the time you helped me when I needed it?" Sherlock asked calmly.

Lestrade met his eyes, his gaze weary. "You swore it wouldn't happen again. And I believed you. So you being murdered in the flat was, obviously, a very likely scenario." Sherlock held his gaze, surprised. Lestrade shook his head, "now that you'e gotten me in trouble, why are you so worried about this best man thing?"

"It's a speech, Lestrade." Sherlock stood and paced. "It has to be...perfect. Every last syllable must be correctly calculated to draw out the right effect. To present the correct idea."

"Oh yeah?" Lestrade was smiling. "And what's that?"

Sherlock halted his movement and looked at Lestrade, clenching his right fist tentatively. "That John Watson is to this day the most important person I have ever met and that I do not think I would be here, nor be the man I am today, without him. And as I am not a man prone to emotional outbursts, this may be the only time I will have the opportunity to ever begin to make up for his trouble of being my friend."

Lestrade was smiling warmly. "You're probably one of the stupidest men I've ever met," he said. "But I agree, with all of that." He sat back in his chair. "We just gotta figure out how to put that in a speech, and make it easy for those people who don't know you to understand."

Sherlock put his face into his desk. "This is the hardest thing I'll ever have to do," he said faintly.

"Yeah you said that already," Lestrade said, laughing. "Now you do it, you stupid sod."

 

Sherlock was ready for the wedding. Terrified, yes. Heartbroken, yes, but that took a back seat to his determination to show how he felt about John in the best way he could, while still supporting him and being the best friend, the best man he could.

He gave his speech. The line he almost struggled over was one he'd written and deleted from it over and over. "He's saved my life so many times and in so many ways." He hand't been sure. He hadn't run it by Lestrade, or Mrs Hudson, but he knew they of all people would understand it. So he gave his speech, starting falteringly and nervously, but by the end pressing through and relying on his need to get his words out to carry him through. He loved John Watson. He needed John Watson. But not as much as he cared for John Watson, and that was why he was standing up there today.

Mrs Hudson was the first he noticed practically sobbing when he looked up. Then Lestrade, who's eyes had gone glossy, and the rest of the room looking teary-eyed.

"Did I do it wrong?" he whispered to John, concerned. He'd messed it up. He'd been himself, full throttle, and he wasn't sure how to gauge anyone's reactions of it.

"No you didn't--"  
Before Sherlock knew it, John had pulled him into a tight hug, one like he'd never received before. Sherlock's world stopped for a few minutes, and he stone, half stiff, half limp in John's arms, processing how he felt, realizing he felt relieved and excited, confused but happy. He'd done it right.

 

He wasn't counting on working at the wedding. Attempted murder at a wedding didn't seem right. However, given that it was John's wedding, and the man's penchant for danger...he might have expected it.

What he hadn't expected, or couldn't even thought up, was the fact that the attempted victim would be someone who would be willing to commit suicide.

"James, whatever you're doing in there, stop it now."

Sherlock read the urgency in John's face and voice. Sholto was very important to John. But he had no clue how to save the man that John cared about. John had saved Sherlock, had saved many lives, but Sherlock never knew how to do the same for anyone else.

"You and I are very much alike," Sholto called out to Sherlock.

"Yes, we are," Sherlock agreed, thinking fast. He didn't know what to do. The only time he'd ever been successfully talked out of suicide, he'd been punched in the mouth. Which wasn't possible with a door between him and the potential victim.

"Then you also must feel that there is a time and place to die."

"Of course," Sherlock said, frustrated, "but not on John Watson's wedding day." He wondered if Sholto and him were so much alike that he would feel even a fraction of what Sherlock did for John. "We wouldn't do that, would we?" And now he was speaking of suicide, of dying, of his experiences on the rooftop, and the aftermath of learning what his suicide could do to a person. He couldn't see any reaction from John but it didn't matter. "Not to John Watson."

And finally the door opened. Sherlock was aware of Mary looking at him searchingly, but he avoided her look, watching John and Sholto, breathing in and out gently. Alive, alive. 

"You saved his life," Mary whispered to him, and he looked at her sharply, shaking his head before following John into Sholto's room in case his friend needed help.

He'd made many vows that night, and would make one final one later, that one everyone else would see as the most important, but this one he'd made unexpectedly, out of circumstance, necessity, and sudden realization. It was the realest he'd ever been with the vow he'd made to Lestrade years previous, though he doubted John knew of that vow either.

"We wouldn't do that to John Watson." Sherlock knew he'd made the vow to live, and even if John hadn't realized it, he would have to uphold that vow. It was important, more important than probably any other promise he'd made in his life. He was going to be there for John.


	15. Never a Relapse

He was fine.

Sherlock spent time working on cases, on experiments, on his connections with others, on his relationship with Lestrade, on his life at 221b...He was smoking on and off but no where near as much as he had been, he was doing well moving away from everything that had happened during his two years away from London...

But John wasn't here with him. He posted on John's blog very early in their separation something of a joke about John being on "sex holiday". No one saw it as much of a joke, however, and proceeded to contact him to give him things to do. Although he never resented being occupied, Sherlock resented the fact that everyone seemed to think he was in danger by not being constantly busy. He could handle himself.

And then Charles Augustus Magnussen came up.

Sherlock knew, accepting the case, that it might be the worst he could potentially get himself into. A master blackmailer, editing a highly successful newspaper. A keeper of secrets, personal ones, someone who could find out everything about anyone and use it against them. And Sherlock had alot of things he would really keep personal, starting with his transition and leading up to his feelings for John.

He knew, however that he had to give Magnussen something to latch onto. It had to be something private, that people didn't know, or wasn't easily discovered. Which was annoying because that all totaled to drugs, his feelings to John, and his status as a transgender male. And out of the three, the drugs were the least annoying to out about himself.

So he made a point of going out late to a location to buy drugs. And occasionally use them. Although he knew that they'd never been specifically a problem for him, Sherlock was still leery about putting the needle in his arm, about messing with chemicals that had once almost killed him. But he was careful, he knew what he was doing, and knew tearing down Magnussen was worth it in the end.

Janine was another problem. Magussen's PA, Sherlock needed her so he could get into Magnussen's office, to find what he could for his client, and to find what he could about Magnussen. 

Dating her, however, was complicated.

"How come you never sleep with me, Sherlock?" she asked one morning, as he came in, having again spent the night out late. "You're always working."

"You don't know what you're asking," Sherlock said in a monotone voice. "Sleeping with me wouldn't be something either of us would enjoy right now."

He sat down next to her and kissed her, on the mouth, and they held that way for sometime. Her hands were trailing over his torso and he mimicked her motions, hoping that this alone would appease her. But her hands started trailing southward and he broke away abruptly.

"Sherlock, if you're gay just tell me," Janine said bluntly. "No use putting on an act for me." 

"That's not the problem."

"Then what is?"

 

A week later, he was half asleep on the second floor of the drug house, curled up in dirty clothing, unwashed and unshaved, and enjoying what would probably be his final high from drugs in his life. What he hadn't expected of the day was to hear John coming to collect a young man near Sherlock.

Sherlock turned over and sat up, smiling bemused at the situation.

"Oh, hello John. come for me too?" He was still smiling at the look John was giving him.

"I'm on a case"

"No you're not"

"I'm on a case, I'm undercover"

"No, you aren't."

This exchange happened several times over the next hour, driving to saint Barts so John could find out discreetly if Sherlock was high and so someone could fix John's mistake of spraining an addict's wrist, Billy, Sherlock decided to call him later. It was an annoying conversation to have, made even worse by the fact that John did not believe him.

"What exactly did Mycroft tell you about my history with drugs," Sherlock said, as they climbed back into the car.

"That you nearly died once because of them. Because a stupid habit that you started back at uni had gotten out of control. Because you were stupid." John sounded like he was biting into something hard. "He said you were clean now, but he was always concerned. He wants me to watch out for you in case you relapsed like this." He wasn't looking at Sherlock.

"I do not have a drug problem," Sherlock said sternly. "I never did." John made a soft laugh of disbelief and shook his head. "John." Sherlock closed his eyes briefly. "I would not lie about this."

"You've lied about worse," John said. "And, by the way, said overdose wasn't in your medical history. How come Mycroft can erase that but not..." 

"My transgender status," Sherlock finished calmly, hoping they were getting onto somewhat nicer terms again. John nodded. "Because I wasn't in the hospital for the overdose. Mycroft found out about it sometime later."

"You didn't...? Jesus Sherlock, what even was the situation...?"

Sherlock shook his head. "Not now John I've got a case." John glared at him. "if it becomes relevant, remember?"

John sighed and nodded.

Sherlock assumed they would be past it until he realized that John had phoned Mycroft.

"You called him?"

"Of course he bloody did," Mycroft said angrily.

Mycroft was having his flat searched, luckily by Anderson and some of his hang, so at least Sherlock wouldn't have had to dispair over the testosterone if they'd found it. The man never had any luck in previous years on Lestrade's drugs busts so Sherlock knew that even if he was hiding anything they wouldn't have found it.

Luckily they hadn't checked the bedroom and found Janine. That would've been harder to explain than anything else.

Sherlock escaped into the shower to avoid any further questioning or concern from John. He needed a bath. And a shower. And he smiled when he heard Janine coming from the bedroom, sad that he wasn't seeing the look on the man's face.

 

Later that night when he met up with John again, Sherlock was completely focused on the case. All John seemed to want to do though, when he revealed his plan, was to ask about Janine's feelings. Which wasn't his concern at the time. Magnussen needed to be stopped.

But when they reached Magnussen's office, something was wrong. It was too still. Janine was on the floor, unconscious.

John darted forward. "Janine?" he asked, checking her over. Sherlock ignored what he was saying and went to head upstairs.

"Careful--" John called.

Sherlock's path finally lead him upstairs. The perfume smell, Lady Smallwood. She was responsible for this.

But it was Mary who turned to him when he began to speak, her usually large, cheerful eyes now steady and deadly.

"Mary, whatever he's got on you, let me help you," Sherlock said reassuringly, watching her eyes, keenly aware of the gun pointed at his chest. She was dressed professionally. She knew what she was doing.

"Sherlock if you take one more step, I will shoot you."

Sherlock put his faith forward. "No Mary, you won't."

No sooner had he spoken then he registered the impact in his chest. Shocked he looked from Mary's cold eyes to his own chest, now gently filling with red from a hole made by Mary's bullet. 

Imediately, he retreated inwards, every instinct in his mind going off everything clinical he could dredge up telling him to survive. He had the memory of Molly slapping him, to get him to realize what he was doing wrong with the drugs. He used that to stay focused. He had Anderson, who was smart, forensics, smart, to let him know which way to fall to not die. He had Mycroft, to order him him out of shock and find a way to control the pain.

But he couldn't control it. pain was his life. He wasn't Moriarty, he didn't know how to not fear or feel pain. John's wife had just shot him, his chest was on fire, he was convulsing from bloodloss.

he had Moriarty in his head telling him to jump, to die, that it was easy, peaceful. He could do that. Easily even. Sherlock had been close before. Death was easy. In death there was no pain, no suffering, no loss. Life was the hardest. And he'd had a hard enough life already.

But Moriarty in his head was speaking again, "John Watson is definitely in danger..."

And Sherlock thought of John. He'd vowed to live for John he'd vowed to be there for him, to protect him. He. Had. To. Live.

In what felt like hours later, he was forcing his eyes open in an operating room, drawing ragged breaths and feeling each pound of his heart like an anvil falling onto his chest. If he hadn't been on the verge of unconsciousness, and able to speak, he would've mocked the looks on their faces. Complete shock.

He'd apparently been dead, but he didn't find that out until very later, much after he'd woken, fuzzly looking over to John at his bedside, looking like he'd hadn't slept, but grinning with absolute relief at Sherlock.

"Are you okay?" Sherlock said, or tried to say, but his body didn't seem to want to work right.

"Fine," John said, still sounding relived. "Sleep." 

And Sherlock did. Until he was awoken by Mary coming in.

He was barely able to stay conscious, but she was still trying to speak to him.

"Sherlock!" she said sharply. She was in his face, over him, right on top of him and he could barely react. "We don't tell John," she said sternly.

His eyes slid up in his head and he was gone again for what he assumed was a very long time until he was awoken by Magnussen's presence in the room. 

He was fuzzy from morphine and sleep--this was why he wasn't a fan of the drug. But he panicked when Magnussen sat on the edge of his bed, his breathing increasing slightly, feeling constricting in his chest. The man had complete power over him.

And he knew it. Magnussen took one of Sherlock's limp hands in his own. "Oh I covet your hands, Mr Holmes," He said softly. "the musician's hands....and artist's...." he brought Sherlock's hand to his lips and kissed it, very gently. If Sherlock could have, he would have shivered violently. Magnussen looked up at Sherlock, calm curiosity in his face. "A woman's?"

He didn't know. He still didn't know, after having so much available to him, he didn't know about the status of Sherlock's sex or gender. And Sherlock didn't know if he wanted him to find out.

Sherlock mustered up his strength to pull his hand away. Magnussen's gaze lingered. Then the man was up in his face as Mary had been and Sherlock panicked slightly again.

Magnussen said before leaving that Mary shooting him could be leverage. Keeping that from John could be leverage. He had plans to go after Mary and John.

Sherlock's last conscious thought was that he had to stop that from happening, whatever the cost.


	16. Truth

Sherlock had always upheld the belief that anyone could walk in or out of anywhere, or probably even do anything, simply by choosing the right moment. Which was all he needed to do to leave the hospital; find a shirt and some pants, and simply walk out during visiting hours' peak. He did leave the window in the room open all the way, however. He always had to be overt, and having Lestrade and John assume a dramatic escape was too much to pass up. He knew John would worry, he knew Lestrade would think it ridiculous, he knew his brother would put out a manhunt for him, and he didn't have much time.

Breaking into the flat wasn't much of an issue for him; more so than usual due to his injury, but still no more than a short climb up the back wall to the kitchen window. No one ever bothered to open it so no one in 221b knew that the latch had been broken since Sherlock had moved himself in. Moving John's chair back put further strain on his wound, but he wanted everything set up so that he wouldn't have to explain much on the phone when he was ready to be found. Lastly he placed the purchased bottle of Mary's perfume on the side table, and then was gone as if he'd never been back.

He recollected the morphine drip from the member of his homeless network near Leinster gardens and prepared his setup as he waited for over an hour to pass, enough time to stir up panic, enough time to set Mary on edge, and enough time for John to head back to baker street. Then he phoned.

"Sherlock, where the hell are you? Were you at the flat?"

"Shut up. Later. Listen carefully because we don't have alot of time."

"I want to know what's going on, Lestrade and Mrs Hudson are both worried.."

"Yeah has he taken all the morphine yet--" Sherlock heard Lestrade say from the background, and could hear the smirk on the man's face. He rolled his eyes.

"I need you at an address in Leinster Gardens, as soon as you can get here, can you do that?" he asked quickly.

John sighed on the other end. "This better be bloody true, Sherlock. Promise me you will explain everything when I get there."

"As much as I can," he replied, and hung up, pressing a hand to his chest. He knew his own limits, he prided himself on that, but he knew tonight of all nights he would be stretching them yet again.

 

"Do you want to tell me what the HELL is going on?" John hissed, as soon as Sherlock pulled him into the false house, without even an explanation to its origin. The time to be flashy to impress John had long passed, and he knew it would impart the seriousness of the situation if he was silent about where exactly they were.

"Your wife isn't who we think she is, but I don't want to just say that, I want to get her to say it, to tell us, to mean it. Will you help me?"

"Did she shoot you?" John asked incredulously. He shook his head. "Sherlock -"

"John-" Sherlock trailed off having no way to reply.

"Was she the one. Who. Shot. you." John met sherlock's eyes, battle ready. His look was firm and icy cold and Sherlock knew that the ice wasn't directed at him.

"Yes," he said faintly. 

John's shoulders dropped. "Jesus..." He ran a hand through his hair before looking at Sherlock. "You alright?"

"This isn't the time to worry about that. We need to find out what to do about--"

"Sherlock."

Sherlock closed his eyes. "For the moment. Nothing's reopened or gotten pulled on that I've noticed-" Lies. "I feel fine." Lies.

John set his jaw. "What do you need me to do?"

 

They were quickly running out of time. In that Sherlock was running out of time that he could be physically present for whatever altercation John and Mary needed to have, to hear mary's explanation, to set up a compromise between all of them...

He was dimly aware that he'd just asked Mrs Hudson for morphine, and brought up her exotic dancing. But he was too ill to be bothered at the moment; he could barely stand in the door frame at the moment, and knew if John had been less bothered mentally, he would be all over Sherlock with his damned concern.

They all were shocked at the arrival of emergency services, and at the fact that sherlock had their arrival timed to the millisecond. It was horrible, Sherlock dimly thought, that right now John was the one to catch him before he nearly collapsed onto the floor, that he was clutching John's shoulders so hard for support, trying too hard to keep eye contact with his friend. John I won't die I wont die in front of you on our floor I promise, and then he was fading again, eternal bleeding finally having taken its toll, his transport failing him yet again.

 

He wasn't surprised that John was choosing to stay with him at Baker Street for a while. "Until he could settle things with Mary" was his reason, and Sherlock knew they would all have to live with that.

He caught John eyeing him too closely soon after, from where he sat on the couch, scrolling through a newsfeed on his phone idly, knowing he wouldn't be able to pick up cases anytime soon.

Sherlock sighed.

"Alright, what the hell did Lestrade say about drugs now?"

John blinked. "Nothing, really."

"You have that face on when you're wondering about something I've not talked about much to you yet," Sherlock said calmly. "It's usually reserved for times after an indecent when heroin or cocaine comes up, but I'm assuming the morphine is what's flared it up this time."

"Literally I just pointed out to Lestrade that you'd taken the morphine with you, and he said 'he does that'." John smiled faintly and shook his head, unconvincingly. "I'm not worried about it."

"Yes you are." Sherlock brought up a text to Lestrade.

You're a moron. He's always concerned about drugs because of you.

"I told you it isn't a problem."

"I'm sure you wouldn't have let them prescribe you it if it would be an issue," John said, trying to break up a conflict.

_You might wanna try telling him the truth so he's not so damned concerned all the time._

Fuck off.

"No." Sherlock sighed. "I only used it in excess when it was necessary to convey a drug addiction to magnussen."

"Okay."

"You're still worried though," Sherlock said lowly.

"Listen if your best friend claims using drugs in excess to feign an addiction, if you know he's had a history and found him literally high in a drug den over a week ago, if there's some kind of drug related issue that everyone around him seems to dance around or warn you about, _I think I've got reason to worry, don't you?_ "

"No, it's none of your DAMN BUSINESS," Sherlock said, rising from the couch too quickly and putting a hand to his chest. "i'm fine!" he shouted as John moved to help him, and he stormed off to his room, being sure to slam the door as he did.

It's none of his bloody stupid business. It wouldnt happen again. Why does it matter

_So you had a fight then_

_you always text like this when you've fought_

_It's none of his business but as your friend, hes gonna worry no matter what_

Even you still do

_Some responsible adult has to worry about your bloody stupid safety._

 

He opened the door slowly, late that night and sat on the sofa, watched by John. Sherlock couldn't know if his friend was still angry or not, but he sat in silence, feeling the blue eyes on him for a long time.

"Everyone always..." Sherlock faltered, having trouble knowing where to start. he felt John's eyes on him and continued. "Everyone always worries it's a drug thing because I did dabble in drugs. For a while. But it was never as serious as even Lestrade thought...it wasn't stupid in ways that it was dangerous, not really, only stupid because instead of properly paying of the rent, I was ruining my veins every once in a while..."

He sighed. "But that's not..." His hands were trembling slightly and he put them together tightly in an effort to stop it. "I overdosed, as you know, some years ago now... Never went to a hospital for it, Mycroft found out off-hand from Lestrade. Mycroft assumed from what Lestrade had said, that the overdose was due to a growing cocaine habit. Lestrade I think mentioned something about hating himself for "letting it get this far" and ...well, you know Mycroft..." he smiled faintly.

"But it wasn't?" John said quietly.

Sherlock shook his head and swallowed. "I knew-know-exactly how much to take to get myself high, how much to take to just get off enough to be...happy i guess, back then. And exactly how much was too much." He found himself staring hard at a spot on the floor, a nasty taste filling his mouth. "Lestrade was right if he told you it was because I was stupid--the overdose was completely intentional on my part, and I had no wants at the time to be found by Lestrade as soon as he did..."

"Jesus...christ..." Sherlock didn't want to look up at John. He couldn't. "All this time and it was....a...a suicide attempt?"

Sherlock breathed in shallowly. "Yes." He didn't like how his voice sounded. "I was only glad that I never told you before...before saint Bart's and Moriarty's death. It might've torn you and Lestrade up even more then..."

"Jesus...sherlock." John was silent. "Of course everyone is concerned about drug use, anyone would be, but it's not...what everyone makes it out to be at all?"

Sherlock shook his head slowly. "It wasn't one of my better days," he said, his voice shaking slightly.

"What happened? Why didn't Lestrade...take you to a hospital?"

"I don't...remember alot of it. I remember waking up in his lap, vomiting, wishing I hadn't....I think I begged him not to take me to the hospital so mycroft wouldn't find out...." Sherlock shook his head. "Again, everyone is right in saying I was stupid..." Sherlock smiled mirthlessly. "Would you believe me if I told you I went out with the intentions of trying it again the next day?"

"God, Sherlock, I'm so sorry..." John shook his head and Sherlock looked up to meet his eyes. "I didn't even... think."

"You wouldn't have," Sherlock said softly, and sighed, realizing himself echoing Victor's words from so many years ago. "I'd taken to not bringing it up. I don't see it as anything but an intense weakness in my timeline."

"So there hasn't been anything...like that since?" John asked. Then he frowned. "The day I ...found out about your condition....jesus I'm sorry, Sherlock."

"It's not like that was related to why I even entertained the idea at the time of the overdose," Sherlock said easily, determined to not make John feel responsible for any thoughts he might have had. "That was a bad day. Back then was a bad day, at the end of a bad case, during a too-trying time in my life." Sherlock sighed. "That was the second time I;d only ever seriously considered it, and that time was the only time I didn't have someone to talk me out of those thoughts." Sherlock smiled softly. "For which I'm grateful to you for. You keep me grounded when I can't do it myself."

He could see alot of thoughts, and emotions, running across John's face as the two sat in silence for a while. Sherlock didn't know how he would respond to anything further at this point, so hurried off to his room, with the excuse of his wound bothering him -- no of course he didn't need John's help--and sat on the edge of his bed for a long time, thinking of unexpressed thoughts and untold feelings.

Honesty brought the worst out of him, really.

He knew John was awake, just as he was. Sherlock could hear the pacing on the floorboards, count the steps his flatmate was making, the number of times he hesitated when he faced the kitchen... Sherlock had initially been unable to sleep due to his own uncertainties and feelings, but now it was due to John's that he lay awake, flat on his back on his bed, hoping and praying that John wouldn't come into talk.

It wouldn't do for him to have any more vulnerable moments tonight, or to even see John vulnerable. Sherlock was tired of all the emotion that was around him. It was harder for him to reason through than any of his most difficult cases.

When it'd been quiet for 20 minutes, Sherlock padded softly to the door to his room and crept slowly into the kitchen, swearing silently to himself as John raised his head. Sherlock looked from the cup of now cold tea on the table before his friend to John's tired eyes, and almost turned around to head back to his room. Almost.

But it was beyond him at this point to snub John for doing things Sherlock didn't cope well with, it was a point in their friendship where they were definitely closer than they'd ever been in many ways, and he knew he would need to stick it out. As much as he could.

John smiled faintly as Sherlock changed out the water to reheat more. "Listen I'm..." Sherlock turned towards him, and john stood, put the mug in the sink, his arm brushing Sherlock's, John's eyes watching the event. "I'm not good at this sort of stuff," John said frowning.

"Nor am I," Sherlock muttered. "I usually avoid any sort of personal discussion." John nodded.

"Though we've had a few now," John said softly. He looked away slightly and Sherlock suddenly wondered where John was going with this. "It's just everytime ... the more I learn about you the more..." And John slowly put his hand on Sherlock's, his voice trailing off, his tired, stress eyes roaming over Sherlock's face, his face inching closer to Sherlock's--Sherlock could feel his breath, warm.

Sherlock pulled away quickly, meeting John's eyes for a frantic second before turning on his heel and bolting outside, not bothering with a coat or to remember that he'd only been wearing socks. The cold London air hit him as the door slammed after him and he didn't stop before fleeing down the street, not wanting to think about anything.

He came to a stumbling halt in Lestrade's back garden, a light rain coming down, and picked up there nearest thing he could throw, and chucked it at the brick as hard as he could, with the loudest cry he could wrench from his throat. The light flicked on as he was kicking a bit of wood, and the window flew open.

"Sherlock!?"

Ignoring Lestrade's call, Sherlock punched the brick wall and then let out a quiet noise of pain, pressing his forehead into the cold damp building.

"Sherlock."

Lestrade stopped and stood a few feet from him. Sherlock breathed in slowly and then spoke.

"John, it's John, it's always John. He's always there and always care and god knows I can't just get him out of my head and stop caring about him..." he drove his fist into the wall again. "I'm in love with him, his stupid face, his stupid voice, his stupid worry lines, and sad baggy eyes, and his stupid 5'6" height and his..ridiculous jumpers..." Sherlock closed his eyes and turned his hear to the side. "Fu----uck."

A few minutes later all he could appreciate was that Lestrade had been willing to stand out in the rain with him in the dead of night. Until he was able to stand up again and turn tired eyes to Lestrade, at a loss for words, or even what he should do next.

"Let's get inside, before it rains any harder," Lestrade said gently, easily putting his hand on Sherlock's shoulder and steering him in through the door. "Don't worry about dripping on the floors-i need to clean up around here anyways. You want tea? I'm making tea."

sherlock stood in the kitchen, shivering slightly as Lestrade put his kettle on the stove and turned to Sherlock "Are you alright?"

He shrugged slowly.

"Did something happen?"

He shrugged again.

"If it's been tearing you up this bad, you've gotta tell him," Lestrade said, sliding into a chair and watching Sherlock's face.

"You knew."

Lestrade shrugged slightly. "Well, yeah, of course. I mean..." He smiled faintly. "I dunno if anyone else does but I know you better than most. And John can be oblivious."

Sherlock sat slowly and put his face in his hands. "He's married."

"yeah and he cares about you." Lestrade smiled faintly. "You might wanna clean up your hand in the bathroom; you're bleeding a bit."

"I'm always bleeding where you live aren't I?" Sherlock murmured softly.

Lestrade was pouring tea when Sherlock came back to the kitchen, and they both sat at the table in silence for a while, Sherlock wondering if there was anyway he could just stay here.

"So what's the real problem?" Lestrade asked after a while.

Sherlock stared into his tea. "That's a very simple question for something that needs a larger detailed answer." He sighed. "John is married to a woman who is pregnant with his child. He was or is in love with her, devoted to her." Sherlock clenched his fist. "John may reciprocate feelings toward me...unless it was due to stress or being overtired, which I would not write off."

They talked and sat in silence long into the night, afterward Lestrade heading to bed and offering Sherlock the couch. Both knew that Sherlock would be gone by the time Lestrade awoke, but Sherlock still appreciated the effort.

At sunrise, Sherlock slipped out the door and made his way down to the riverside, listening to the sounds of London life and wondering if there would ever be a point where he felt truly at home in any place in the city. He supposed if the drama with John ended, or if John had been straight and not confused, or maybe if life could get better with the situation as it was...

Truthfully Sherlock didn't even know how well John saw him. He knew he was accepted and cared about and tolerated; even admired by many people in his life. He knew John cared. Maybe someday that would be enough.

Either way, Sherlock's life was with John now and he would do nearly anything to keep that life safe, even if John didn't reciprocate his feelings, even if there was no way that John could see the man Sherlock felt he was and fully accept and live with that, dramatics and everything else.

Whatever the case, Sherlock knew he had to return to Baker Street, apologize to John, and figure things out from there. he sent a simple text to Lestrade "Thank you" and hurried off into the morning to do what he could.


	17. Smoke and Flames

He didn't waste anytime to clamber onto the couch when he reached the flat, considerably disheveled and tired. John was seated in his chair, face propped up on his hand, right elbow into the armrest. Been sleeping there all night then. Sherlock closed his eyes, trying to think of how to fix the situation.

But John spoke first.

"I'm sorry about last night. I didn't think at all ... hell I don't even know if you're gay or what I just..." John sighed. "Acted stupid-"

"No, I'm sorry," Sherlock murmured, watching John from his spot on the couch. "I shouldn't have just taken off like that. It was stupid, acting irrationally without any explanation..."

"Anyways it won't happen again," John muttered, almost bitterly, and Sherlock's stomach wrenched as John moved to stand up, to leave the room, to leave and before he knew what he was doing, he was on his feet, over to John before the man was halfway out of his chair, his long spindly fingers of his left hand clutched tightly around John's muscled and thicker wrist and his face almost too close to his friend's. His eyes met John's, lost in that deep blue, the wideness of acceptance, of everything Sherlock had come to admire over the years, and they were both frozen, each out of some barely registered shock at what Sherlock was doing.

"Don't go." His voice was raspy and deep, barely said in a whisper, but John's eyes widened ever so slightly after it was said and Sherlock could feel his pulse hammering where his hand was clutching onto John's; he let himself blink once, but held contact, both with his eyes and his hand, his body rigid with panic and adrenaline. He had no idea where this would go from here.

John held the look for a long time and his muscles relaxed, Sherlock coulc feel it, and John nodded, slightly, looking away for half a tick and then back up at Sherlock.

"Alright... alright."

"Did you mean...it last night?" Sherlock asked softly and he wasn't sure what he was doing anymore or why he was clutching onto John still, too close to him; he could feel the soft exhale of surprise from John's barely parted lips and his skin suddenly felt alight with something akin to the feeling he'd had while on drugs. And suddenly his lips were on John's. Sherlock came in hard and commanding at first and then grew hesitant to find that John was kissing him back, with just as much intensity and he felt slightly like he was in shock, like everything around them had just gone slightly out of focus, and it was wonderful and quiet and loud all at once and shuts everything else out...

He broke away to let out a breath and then his mobile beeped. He pulled it swiftly from his pocket, looking at John's curious eyes and finally tore his gaze away to read the text from Lestrade.

"Case," he said breathlessly, and tore out of the room to change his clothes and get his hair looking more presentable; he'd spent enough days in front of Lestrade's team looking like he belonged in the gutter back when things were bad, he didn't want any impression of otherwise now.

 

_Christmas_

Sherlock's sat listening to his mother gab on about nonsense, him getting shot, Mycroft's stupidity... he hated Christmas dinners. He spots his father coming out of the room John had John walked into and meets his eyes softly, knowing what the thoughts were all about here.

"Those two, they alright?" his father looks genuinely concerned and Sherlock knows he case. Alot.

Sherlock shrugs. "They've had their ups and downs," he sighes out and he knows his father can tell something's up, he wonders how much Dad guesses about how he feels about John, but neither of them say anything else. There's been a quiet and soft understanding between them for years, something he could never have with Mother, and he appreciates it, as he knows his father does.

He hopes everything will work out.

 

_Months earlier_

"John, I'm done playing, I'm done experimenting."

"Don't you dare call that an experiment, Sherlock."

John was mad. He spits Sherlock's name when he's angry and Sherlock wondered if he'll ever stop wanting to flinch when it happens.

"Listen to me." He met John's eyes with a similar intensity to a week before. "You have to go back to Mary, you have to stick with her."

"Why?" John was trying him. Angry, not believing anything Sherlock said. Sherlock sighed, hating himself for everything.

"Because... she's your wife. Your...family." He stuttered out the word but pressed on. "When I was very young, I found out that my father was being suduced by someone at his work." He bit out every word, hoping John would take it the way he needed him too. "My mother stuck by him, even though I'd told her he'd been cheating, given what I thought was evidence."

"Was he?" John asked. A simple curiosity, nothing deterring from the point. Sherlock was grateful, in a way.

"No. Mycroft proved as soon as he got home that nothing was happening. But my mother, she was prepared to make it work, he apologized a dozen times, they were willing to make it all work. Because they were married, the most important people in each other's lives, and they made mistakes, but they cared about each other." Sherlock met John's eyes. "Mary is in trouble, which puts you in trouble too. And likely other's you two know as well. You've got to stick with her or she's not going to be able to fix this."

John's angry eyes met his and he gave a cold nod, turning away and slamming a door upstairs behind him.

 

_Christmas_

Appledore is in Magnussen's head and Sherlock's out of a plan. John is counting on him, wanting him to do something, and he's spent. Blank. Done. He can't protect the real family he's made for himself, cant help John. There is no way out of this, not even Mycroft could save him here, as he watches John stare at Magnussen, the wirr of the helicopter noise making him even more angry.

Before he knows it he's slipped John's gun of of the man's back pocket and shot Magnussen in the head.

He drops the gun quickly, puts his hands up, breathing hard. Everything is broken. John is safe.

 

_Later_

They stood on the runway, facing each other, Mycroft and Mary feet away to give them space. Sherlock would be heading to his death, he knew it. 

"John...there's something I've always wanted to say..." He could do it, confess. Sherlock could stand here and say "John Watson, I am in love with you, and have been for years, and frankly, it's torn me apart more than anything and it's incredibly ...amazing." But he couldn't. He couldn't leave John with that when he'd hear of Sherlock's death sixth months from now... What if it broke the man, or ruined what could be a fixable relationship between him and Mary. He wanted acceptance, but it wasn't something Sherlock could get now. It was too late, all his chances were gone.

"...Sherlock is actually a girl's name."

John's eyes did something funny and suddenly John was laughing. Sherlock realized belatedly what he'd said in terms of who and what he was, and broke a slight smile, his eyes never leaving John's. This would be the last time he would see those eyes crinkle... at least it'd been a good one.

"No it isn't," John said seriously, and Sherlock nodded, smiling to himself. 

"Was worth a try."

"We're not naming our daughter after you." They smiled at one another, like the idiot's they always been.

Sherlock stuck out his hand. "To the very best of times, John," he said, and something inside him tore.

John waited a beat before shaking it. Sherlock thought back to the first time they'd done this, outside of 221b, the day after they'd met...so much had happened since then, all of it worth it.

Sherlock got on the plane and sat back, staring out the window, feeling his eyes burning. It was only after the the jet took off that he lowered his head into his hands and let the tears flow from his eyes.

And then the phone was passed to him, and Mycroft was calling him back and although he was sarcastic in his response, he couldn't think straight he was too happy. No matter what was coming their way or what problem England could face, he was going back. And he was thinking back to months ago, he wasn't fully aware of where he was because of the relief, months ago, the day of when he'd kissed John, when everything had changed but also been right...

 

Sherlock stepped into the hall to find John changed and waiting for him. John gave a slight tilt of his head to the door, and Sherlock wondered if somehow they'd made it all normal. 

Normal. He thought in the cab ride to the crime scene. Normal, ordinary, something he'd loathed for years, something he never could be. He was a man without a true place, or so he'd always thought. 

Ordinary. Lestrade greeted them both, smiling warmly at him and John, leading them to the scene and explains the vague details they've gathered. He and Sherlock both watch John bend over the body and as Sherlock stoops down he catches Lestrade smiling slightly. Just a glimpse but it makes him wonder.

Not boring. He'd shouted at some of Lestrade's team about a possible solution and he saw out of the corner of his eye John looking at him, awed as always, though John had all but stopped saying his admiration aloud.

Normal. He stood with Lestrade outside the red tape, sneaking in a cigarette while John was chatting with the team.

"What say you if there's this poor sod who's had alot of shit happen to him all his life," Lestrade said casually, looking up into the grey but bright sky, "And he lashes out from it, hell I don't blame him, he lashes out in every way and it's fucking shit sometimes." Lestrade shook his head and looked down and smiled at the ground slightly. "And god help him he's still lashing out, getting it all out of his system. Can you believe it, throws a brick at my wall past midnight, in the rain in his socks just because he's emotional over some bloke he's been in love with for years." Lestrade met Sherlock's eyes.

Sherlock smiled softly, and laughed to himself. "I'd say you're a good man to put up with all that."

"Damn right I am," Lestrade said, his eyes playful. "And I'm gonna keep putting up with it. Cos I think he's gonna figure it all out real soon. God help him he's a stupid prick sometimes, but he's my stupid prick."

Sherlock laughed quietly, feeling some kind of teary feeling in his chest. Lestrade put a hand on his shoulder and squeezed a bit and Sherlock put out his cigarette under the toe of his shoe.

"...Everything alright?" John was standing just near the crime scene tape, looking slightly concerned, slightly at ease.

"Yeah," Lestrade said, dropping his arm from Sherlock and looking at Sherlock fondly.

"Yeah it's great," Sherlock said honestly.

John smiled, a real genuine smile, and the three walked back under the tape...

 

Home. He was finally going home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks as always if you've read this far. This fic was a rewarding project to take on, even though it took so long to write. it started off as just an idea to play around with and grew into something more, something that started off with Sherlock and grew, as these things always do, a way to look at his relationship with John.
> 
> Please feel free to leave any comments or criticism, if you would like to see me write anything more in this area of fic etc. I really appreciate feedback :)
> 
> Again, thanks for reading despite the awful long gaps in between updates. it's been awesome to know so many of you have been reading and enjoying this weird little fic. :)


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